


with all your delights

by weatheredlaw



Series: with all your delights [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Animal Death, Begging, Childhood Trauma, Come Sharing, Consort Aziraphale, Dirty Talk, Discussions of violence, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Hair-pulling, Illnesses, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of emotional/psychological abuse, Power Dynamics, War, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 61,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Crowley laughed. “I thought you’d have realized by now. I am no ordinary king.”“No,” Aziraphale said. “You certainly are not.”or: aziraphale is sent as a gift to the southern king to smooth over trade negotiations. they both find themselves in over their heads.





	1. spring, and the thawing of hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nimravidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/gifts), [leaveanote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/gifts).

> self indulgent consort au! mixed some royalty au in there for good measure because why not. i have no idea what this country i've described looks like, a frankly you should worry about that either. i have a vague notion of when certain fruits grow, a vaguer notion of how time passes. don't get stressed. just enjoy.

Aziraphale had grown up in the Golden Court, and he was taught, from an early age, how to be _very_ good. Very good at art, very good at music, very good at conversation and entertainment. He was not, of course, destined for the grand halls and manors of the local nobility like his brothers and sisters, but all the same, he was happy. And he thought, foolishly, that it would go on forever.

He was very, _very_ wrong.

It began in hushed whispers, his siblings ducking out of the room whenever he walked in, his mother glancing at him forlornly from across the table at breakfast. Aziraphale and his siblings had all been raised with _excellence_, and their mother was not an especially emotive woman. So it surprised him, a great deal, to see her so..._sad._

“Is something wrong?” he finally asked one afternoon. She was pretending to read a book, and Aziraphale was working on a composition for Michael for her birthday. “You seem...distracted, mother.”

“We’ll speak on it later,” she said, and went back to not reading a single word.

Aziraphale sighed.

At dinner that evening, Gabriel cleared his throat and said, “Aziraphale. I’m sure you’ve heard we’ve been having trouble working out a trade deal with the Southern king.”

“I had,” Aziraphale said. “But I was told it was well in hand by Lord Peverell.”

“It isn’t,” Michael said. “But we’ve worked out a bit of a solution.”

“Have you?” Aziraphale set down his fork and felt a cool hand cover his. It was his mother’s. He tried to hide his surprise.

“Your brother would like you to go to the Southern king. As an emissary of this court.”

“To appease him,” Gabriel said.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. _Oh._ “...I see.” He hadn’t expected this. Not at all. “It would...please the court, then? If I did so?” His mother nodded. “Then I won’t argue. I...I’ll leave as soon as I’m able.”

“End of the week,” Gabriel said.

Aziraphale _sputtered._ “It’s _Thursday! _Define the bloody end of the _week_ for me, brother, if you’d be so kind—”

“There’s no need for that,” Gabriel said. “Someone is upstairs packing your things—”

“_Someone is_—” Aziraphale wrenched his hand away from the table and stood. “You could have _warned_ me,” Aziraphale said. “You could have _told_ me that this is what you’ve been planning for days now. I’m not an idiot, no matter what you might think. I’ve _seen_ you all, and you!” He turned to his mother. “You’ve been...you haven’t—” Aziraphale pushed his chair in. “_Excuse_ me,” he said. “I obviously have some planning to do.”

He turned on his heel. No one called out for him. No surprise there.

* * *

The Southern king had a fearsome reputation. They said, in the Great War, he rode out to his borders and stared down the enemy with a serpent’s eye and they fled because of that alone. The stories spoke of torture, of cells beneath the grim, dark castle filled with people who had simply caught the king on a bad day. The stories spoke of incredible cruelty, of a man who had stabbed one of his advisors for simply speaking out of turn. They said he could do dark magic, and turn into a snake. Aziraphale shuddered.

And the kingdom itself! Rocky and uninhabitable, a wicked coastline that went on for miles, where the unhappy citizens threw themselves into the sea.

Aziraphale, sitting at his desk and packing his papers, was not looking forward to it. With any luck, he would simply be locked away with his books, and he could write to his mother once the trade deal was complete and be sent back home. Perhaps his suffering would only last a few _weeks_ at best, and he could come back with stories of how he survived the Southern king and his sad and sullen castle. Perhaps _then_ he would be afforded the opportunity to venture into the better homes and manors of the Golden Kingdom’s elite.

Trauma was always in fashion, real or not.

Come morning, Aziraphale was packed and dressed for the dreary weather of the South. His mother had sent for a set of darker clothes, as his lighter, gold-trimmed pieces that fit his dalliances in the Golden Court so well would not do in the courts of the South.

“King Crowley,” she said, “is an unfortunate man. He is cruel because the world was cruel to him.”

“How do you know?”

“I knew his uncle, when I was much younger. Lucius was a terrible man. He was lucky to have died by illness, rather than the hand of his own people.”

“And Crowley?”

His mother sighed. “I met Anthony when he was very young. He’s only a few years younger than you, you know.”

“What was he like?”

“Argumentative. Disobedient. His uncle detested adversity, and had the boy witness terrible things to secure his loyalty. I’m sure it was an enormous relief when he died.”

“Perhaps he’s not so bad.”

His mother shrugged. “Perhaps not,” she said. “Perhaps the stories are exaggerated. We have had no contact with the South for many years, now. My meeting with Lucius was here, they visited to attempt the trade deal over twenty years ago. It was a failure of a trip.” She straightened his traveling cloak and cupped his cheek. “There,” she said. “A bit more subdued. You saw your other pieces?”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I had them made a few weeks ago. You don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose I don’t.”

His mother stepped back and looked him over. “You are more than prepared for this. You have trained all your life,” she said. “Maybe _you_ will be the reason our Southern brothers accept the hand which has been extended to them.”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale didn’t have a great amount of confidence in his ability to make any change at all, but he was now duty bound to travel to the king in the South and do as he was told.

“Good luck,” she said, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Write to me.”

“I will,” Aziraphale said, and ascended the carriage. His siblings were not there to send him off.

No surprise there, either.

* * *

It was a five hour journey to the castle in the South, but they would reach the border in four. This was Aziraphale’s first apprehension. What kind of land did King Crowley rule over? What kind of people lived there? It was early spring, still chill in the early morning. By their second hour of traveling, Aziraphale could start to smell the sea through the open carriage window, and he felt a bit of his anxiety melt away. He hadn’t been to the coast in so long, and never in the South. How different would it be, he wondered. If he stayed long, would he see it?

He was still thinking about these things when the driver announced they had crossed the border. Aziraphale opened the window further and leaned out to see.

It was _not_, as he’d been told, a world of gloom and shadow. For starters, it was _green_. There were rolling hills that whipped past covered in stark brown trees growing their first spring blooms. The air was wet and cool with sea water. Aziraphale closed his eyes and _breathed_ — he recognized salt on the air and the richness of the soil around him.

This place was _beautiful_, he realized, and he suddenly wanted to stop, to take in the view and commit it to memory. He still wanted to go _home_, but he’d love to remember this. To tell people _this_ story.

“Just an hour out!” the driver called, and Aziraphale disappeared back into the carriage.

The castle was the seat of the nation’s power, and the center of its largest city. Aziraphale had heard stories of this place, too. Virgil was supposed to be a bastion of poverty and sickness, people dying in the streets with no way to rebel against their vile king.

After passing several prospering farms, Aziraphale was prepared for the opposite, and was not disappointed by what he saw when they finally arrived.

A towering castle, made of dark stone certainly, but clean and beautiful from where he sat. And the _city!_ So vibrant and noisy, filled with people crossing from one side of the main road to the other, shouting to one another, tossing coin about and talking animatedly. He caught sight of a bookshop, the windows filled with things, and young men and women coming out, heads bowed in deep discussion.

_I should like to go _there, he thought.

Some stared as he passed — the carriage was not the usual Golden Court variety, but it was still different, and Aziraphale was clearly a stranger. He supposed carriages arriving at the castle attracted attention either way.

They waited for the castle gates to be opened. The noise of the market died behind them as the gates swung shut, and they rode the winding path up to the castle.

“Here, sir. I’ll help you,” the driver said, when they’d finally stopped. He took Aziraphale’s hand and helped him out of the carriage. A few servants came and took his things, running off some unknown path with them. He wondered what his rooms would be like, if he’d have any.

“You must be Aziraphale,” a woman said.

“Ah, yes.” He turned to face her and she bowed. Aziraphale bowed in return.

“I’m Madame Tracy, I have run of things around here.” She turned and waved for him to follow. “You’ve just missed his Majesty, I’m afraid. There was some trouble in some of the lake towns, he had to ride out to settle a few things.”

Aziraphale raised a brow. The _king_ had gone out to settle some small town skirmish? An interesting concept, he thought, but said nothing. “Of course. When will he return?”

“Oh, not for two weeks, I’m afraid. Though if you ask me, it’s really an excuse so he can stop thinking about the bloody trade deal. No offense.”

“None taken. I’ve authored no part of it.”

Madame Tracy laughed. “Oh, I’m sure it’d be a sight better if you had. Terrible mess, this trade business.” She sighed, said a few words to some passing servants before hiking up her skirts and leading him up a winding staircase. “His Majesty wanted me to tell you that you will, of course, have free reign of the castle, apart from his rooms.”

“And the town? May I go there?”

They’d reached the top of the stairs. Madame Tracy turned. “Ha!” Aziraphale’s expression fell. “Why _wouldn’t_ you?” she asked, and kept going.

Something small and warm in Aziraphale’s chest _bloomed._

“Now,” she said. “These here will be your rooms. Don’t know if you could hear it, over racket of that bloody marketplace, but you’ve got an _excellent _view of the sea from here. His Majesty thought you might like that.” She slid a key into the lock and pushed the door open.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “...Oh.”

_Oh._

The room was _beautiful._ A large, four-poster bed with a maroon canopy sat along one long wall. There was a small sitting room with a few overstuffed chairs and a set of double doors leading out onto a balcony. Aziraphale went to them and flung them open, breathing in the sea air.

There was a long beach between some rocky outcroppings and people were fishing straight into the water. Children went running into the water, screeching when the frigid seat lapped at their toes and running back to shore.

“Does it please you, sir?”

Aziraphale turned to her and grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Very much.”

* * *

He took his dinner alone that night, seated at a small table on the balcony, listening to the tide wash in, penning a letter to his mother.

_It’s as you expected — rumors have been harshly exaggerated. While I’ve yet to meet the king, I’ve met his very pleasant staff (quite small, nothing compared to our own court) and been given a very lovely set of rooms. There’s even a small library attached, and it’s full of some very wonderful books, many I’ve never even read before. _

He paused. Took a bite of the reserve fruit from the harvest before. Madame Tracy said the kitchens did a lot of jarring, as their growing season was short. The taste and color burst over his tongue and he groaned. How _lovely_ it was to have dinner alone and know it wasn’t because no one wanted him there.

_I don’t know how long I’ll need to be here, but so far, I am not so dismayed. I intend to read, continue my compositions, and write the days away until the king arrives. Even the market and town below is available to me. Please don’t let anyone worry or fret over my general state. I’m feeling quite happy, though tired from the ride. _

_Yours, Aziraphale_

He tossed his pen to the table. No one would fret, he knew that. Gabriel was always trying to get him from underfoot. Aziraphale was sure he’d been only _too_ happy to suggest his younger brother for this task. He sighed, popped an olive in his mouth, and swooned again. Oh, he could get used to this. His dinner of fish with rosemary and preserved lemons was very different than the red meat they ate in the North. How _excellent_ this would be, he thought. How new and _wonderful_.

Aziraphale washed himself before bed, changed into his sleep clothes, and crawled under the blanket. It was a magnificent bed, bigger than his one at home. He fell asleep instantly, exhausted from travel, and warm with joy.

* * *

“Ay, a newcomer,” the man behind the counter said. “Welcome in.”

Aziraphale, one servant in tow, looked around the bookshop. It was _wonderful._ Towering shelves, a second floor where he could hear murmuring and the clatter of dishes.

“You must be the lad from the North,” the man said, and extended a hand.

“Oh!” Aziraphale returned the gesture. “My arrival was broadcast?”

“Less broadcast and more that Miss Tracy’s husband can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“You be _nice_ about Mr. Shadwell,” a woman said, coming from a back room. “Don’t mind him. What’s your name, sir?”

“Aziraphale.”

“Quite the Northern name,” she said. “Dierdre Young. This is my husband, Arthur. Our son Adam is about somewhere. If you hear the city guard shouting, it’s probably him.” She bent and lifted a stack of books onto the counter. “Can we help you find anything? I’m sure you don’t lack books in the castle, his Majesty likes to keep as many as he can.”

“Big reader?”

“Eh,” Mr. Young said. “Less him, more he likes to practice what he preaches. Encourages the youth to read, so their king should, too. You must be well read yourself, coming from the Golden Court the way you do.” Dierdre elbowed him. “What? S’not a _secret_.”

“Be _polite._”

Aziraphale held up a hand. “It’s fine. I’d like to look around a bit, if I may?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Young smiled. “Enjoy yourself. Call if you need us.”

Aziraphale nodded and began to circle the shop. He spent well over an hour there, and by the time he was done he had a small stack of new things to read, tied with string and sent ahead to the castle. He said goodbye to the Youngs, visited the bakery next door for a chocolate filled croissant, and began to walk back up the hill.

People _did_ know about him, it seemed. They stopped and asked to shake his hand. He met Shadwell, Madame Tracy’s husband and captain of the guard, who was taking his general safety _very_ seriously. It took much longer for him to get back to the castle than he’d intended, and by then it wasn’t really lunch time, so he ate with the kitchen staff on some sausage and bread, listening to their stories until dinner.

* * *

For two weeks, Aziraphale enjoyed himself. He organized his rooms, he went down to the market, he even went to the beach, despite the chill. It was _delightful_. In the evenings he usually ate alone, though he became quick friends with the kitchen staff, made up of only a cook and two other servants, and would sometimes take his meals with them.

“Why _is it_,” Aziraphale said, as he and Madame Tracy walked up from the beach one afternoon, “the king keeps such a small staff?”

She sighed. “His Majesty is very self-sufficient. And...we do not have a _court_, really. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley’s court was nothing like the Golden Court back home. No lounging nobility or distant relatives clamoring for the king’s attention. It was quite a barren place, even the advisors kept their distance. They hadn’t acknowledged his presence, despite its connection to the trade deal. Aziraphale preferred it that way. It was much nicer to speak to the Youngs, or to the kind young herbalist in town, Anathema. She worked closely with the king’s personal physician, apparently, and had already given Aziraphale a few remedies for his headaches. The change in elevation between the North and South had not done him any good.

“It’s an interesting experience,” he said finally. “One I like, actually. At the Golden Court, one often feels like...a performer.”

“That must be dreadful after a while.”

Aziraphale considered this. “When I was young, I was eager for it. I could hardly _wait_ to come of age, play music or paint, allow people to watch me.”

“Among other things?”

He ducked his head. “It’s not as strange as it sounds.”

“Oh, I mean nothing by it.” She touched his arm. “But you must admit...growing up so you’ll just _entertain?_ What kind of life is that for a boy?”

“I wasn’t unhappy,” Aziraphale said. “Quite the opposite, actually. My siblings left me alone, for the most part. I had very good tutors, and I had free reign of the libraries. But when I came of age, things did change,” he admitted. He thought back to his first night with a member of the court, an older gentleman who’d been very kind, but not especially thoughtful. “One learns to be vocal,” he said after a few moments. “About what one _wants._”

Madame Tracy nodded. “A good trait to possess.”

They arrived at the castle just as a large thunderhead started to move in. Down the path, Aziraphale could see a dark carriage moving toward them, and he stopped. “Is that him?”

“Hm? Oh, no, it wouldn’t be. He isn’t due back ‘til tomorrow—” Madame Tracy looked. “Oh, _damn!_” She gathered her skirts and rushed into the castle. Aziraphale stayed outside as it began to rain, watching the carriage come closer. He couldn’t see through the darkened windows inside, but he moved out of sight before it drew too close, rushing in as it began to pour.

* * *

“His Majesty is too tired to receive you tonight,” said one of the servants. “He promises it will be soon, though.”

Aziraphale nodded and closed the door to his room. It was just as well, he really wasn’t prepared.

He settled back at his desk, annoyed the rain kept him from eating outside. His compositions had come to a standstill — he had no piano, and there wasn’t one in the castle. Madame Tracy had said she’d look into having one brought to him, but she had so many other things to do Aziraphale couldn’t blame her if she forgot.

Aziraphale sighed and looked over the letter he’d received from his mother —

_I hope the sea treats you well then, my dear. The trade deal is at a standstill, but I’m to understand the king has been otherwise engaged, whether intentionally or by happenstance. _

_Be safe, and be well._

_Your mother _

“An interesting thought,” Aziraphale murmured. Madame Tracy had suggested more than once that the king would do anything to get out of dealing with the trade talks. His advisors were very unhappy.

The king didn’t send for him the next day, as Aziraphale expected he would, or the day after that. By the middle of the week, he was on edge, concerned that perhaps his initial wish would be granted, and he’d simply be left to his own devices until someone remembered him and sent him back, or he died here. _Well_, he thought. _At lEast there’s a view._

However, four days after the king arrived home, a servant came by to tell him someone would collect him after dinner.

_This_ set Aziraphale’s nerves _alight._

He had entertained the noblemen of the court for several years. He’d entertained the king’s _guests_ and he’d entertained very special visitors. _Royalty_, however, had always been off limits. Crowley was the _king_ of this nation. Aziraphale didn’t know what to expect, remembering the rumors and reputation. Of course, the entire _kingdom_ was different than he’d expected. Why wouldn’t the king be, too?

He was escorted after dinner to the other side of the castle. One of the king’s guards stood outside the door and knocked three times.

“_Enter_,” a voice called, and the guard turned the knob, the door swinging open for Aziraphale to step inside.

It shut with a snap behind him, and he stood there in the dim light of the room, trying to find the man who’d spoken.

“Please, don’t just stand there,” the king said. Aziraphale took a few steps and finally saw the very large writing desk against one wall of the room. It was the brightest source of light, and a very tall, slender man was hunched over it. He waved Aziraphale closer, not looking up from his work. He had lovely hands.

“Your Majesty,” Aziraphale said, and knelt.

Crowley finally stopped writing. He still didn’t look up. “There’s no reason to kneel,” he said softly. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know that.” He finally glanced over. “Come, have a seat.”

Aziraphale moved toward one of the sofas and sat at the edge. He’d brought a handful of things — a book he’d recently bought from the shop, a lyre to play, and his sketchbook. How was he supposed to know what pleased a king?

Crowley stood. He was dressed in shades of black and dark grey, but Aziraphale could see his tunic was embroidered along the edges with shiny red and gold snakes. He had hair and eyes to match.

“You’re Aziraphale,” he said, and came to sit in the chair across from him.

“I am.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Your mother wrote me, after I was told about your arrival. She said you were very clever, and you loved books. I made sure the libraries were unlocked for you, did you see them?”

Aziraphale had — they were _beautiful._ “Thank you,” he said. “I enjoyed them immensely.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Crowley leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’ll have to forgive me, I haven’t really recovered from the trip.”

“It was a long one.”

He laughed. “The lakeside towns are always kicking up dust. _Bah_.” He waved a hand. “You don’t want to hear about that shit.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, “I would.” He set his things aside and looked about for something they could drink. He spotted a small bar with a few decanters. “Pick your poison,” he said, standing and walking toward it.

“Hm?” Crowley looked up. “Oh. Scotch.”

“Lovely.” Aziraphale poured two glasses and brought them back. Crowley took his and nodded. “Now. Tell me about these lakeside towns.”

“Well, it really all started with the Harvest Festival, in the fall,” Crowley began. After a while he swung his legs over the arm of the chair and leaned back. He was far too long and _tall_ for that sort of thing, but he made it work, spider-limbs askew as he gestured wildly and swore and sloshed his drink in his glass. Aziraphale filled it when it became too low, until the king shook his head.

“And _then_, as if that weren’t enough, they put me on the bloody _horse!_”

“Vile,” Aziraphale muttered, a bit drunk himself. “Can’t stand horses.”

“Hard on the _buttocks_,” Crowley agreed. He went to take another drink, found the glass empty, and frowned. “Hm.” He set the glass on the table by the chair. “Is this the point of you, then?”

Aziraphale was taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“This.” Crowley waved his hand between them. “Talking, listening. _Entertaining._”

“I…”

“It’s alright, you can admit your purpose to me.” He smiled. Aziraphale _was_ reminded of a python, before its jaw opened and it swallowed a rabbit. Or a deer. “I can admit mine to you, I assume.”

“You’re the king,” Aziraphale said. “Your purpose is known.”

Crowley’s expression darkened. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose.” He adjusted his body and let his legs splay out before him, leaning back deep into the chair. “I won’t require all your services,” he said. “And I won’t need you after the deal is set. I agreed to your presence because _your_ king and his lot seemed desperate. And,” he added, “your mother was very kind to me, when I was a boy.”

“Was she?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes. But this...arrangement. It doesn’t need to be anything but this. And you may go home come Summer, actually. Trade deal be damned.”

“...Oh. Oh, well that’s...that’s very kind of you.”

Crowley sighed and made to stand, but thought better of it. “You’re a very good listener,” he said. “What else do you do? Do you read to people?”

“I can.”

“And? What do you enjoy _most?_ Besides reading.”

“_Well._” Aziraphale had also brought one of his compositions, in hopes the king might have a piano. He did not. “I write music. I haven’t been able to play it or _work_ on it, really—”

“You don’t have a piano,” Crowley said, sitting up now. “That won’t do.”

“Oh, if I’m only to be here until Summer—”

“That’s some months away,” Crowley said. He got up, steadied himself, and went to his desk. “I’ll have Madame Tracy send for one. It won’t be a problem. We don’t entertain,” he said. “So we’ve never had reason for any sort of musical instrument.”

Aziraphale angled himself toward the desk. “And why not?”

“What’s that?” Crowley looked over.

“Why don’t you entertain?”

He made a face. “Useless hobby. No need. And no one would accept the invitation.”

“Because they think you can turn into a snake.”

Crowley _choked_ with laughter. “I’m _sorry?_”

Aziraphale blushed. “I...I forgot myself. That was inappropriate. Forgive me.”

“No, _no_,” Crowley said. He leaned against the desk and folded his arms over his chest. “There’s a rumor that I can turn _into a snake?_”

“...Yes.”

“Oh, I would _love_ to know where that came from. Really I would.” He laughed again, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Ah, that’s priceless. Really.” He walked toward Aziraphale and extended a hand. Aziraphale took it, and Crowley linked their arms. “Why don’t I walk you back to your rooms?”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Aziraphale gathered his things. Crowley told him to give them to the guard, who walked a respectable distance behind them. “I would be very happy to talk to you whenever, you know.”

“Would you?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale glanced at him. He was very handsome, slender cheekbones and lovely profile. “Is that what you’d like most?”

Crowley considered this. “Yes,” he said, after a moment. “I would. I hardly speak to anyone when I’m here by myself. I suppose I’m the reason no one knows a damned thing about me.” He laughed again. “A _snake._ Damn, I _wish._”

“And I could read to you,” Aziraphale said. “Or play. I do quite a lot of things, you know. I’m not..._limited._”

Crowley glanced at him. “No,” he said. “I can see that.”

They finally stopped outside Aziraphale’s room. Crowley released his arm and took his hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Thank you for spending your evening with me. May I see you tomorrow?”

“Your Majesty, I’m yours to—”

“No.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I…”

“You don’t belong to me.” Crowley drew back. “And I’d like to make one thing _quite_ clear, Aziraphale.” His expression, his voice, everything about him — for a moment, Aziraphale believed the stories. “I have no need to possess or own you. I have no _desire_ to make you a prisoner here. If I could send you away tomorrow, I would, if only because the implication of your presence enrages me to no end. I _don’t_ need you.”

Aziraphale stepped back, flat against the door. “I’m only doing as I’m _told_, your Majesty. If it displeases you—”

“Enough,” Crowley snapped, and waved a hand. “I will…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll call for you when I feel like it,” he said, and stalked down the hall.

* * *

Two days after that particular incident, a note was delivered to Aziraphale’s room just after breakfast.

_In retrospect, I find my behavior from the other night appalling. I’d like you to join me for dinner tonight, but I will understand if you’d rather not. _

Aziraphale sighed. Brief, but to the point. He didn’t know the king very well, but he suspected it was very..._him._

“Inform his Majesty I will of course be joining him,” Aziraphale said. He closed the door and went back to his book and breakfast.

That evening, he gathered a few of his things and set out at dinner time for the king’s rooms. One of the guards knocked, and then opened the door.

Crowley was hunched over his desk as he’d been the night before, scribbling madly onto a piece of parchment and muttering to himself. Aziraphale doubted he’d even heard the knock, so he stood just outside the king’s orbit, and waited.

“I can hear you,” Crowley said sullenly, and tossed his pen onto the desk. “Why are your people so _infuriating?_” he asked, and stood, turning to face Aziraphale. He had ink on his nose and forehead, and it made the entire _look_ — dark clothes and foul expression — rather unintimidating.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and set down his things. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said, going to the bar and getting a small towel. He dampened one corner with water from the wash basin. “I’ve always found us to be rather agreeable.”

“Well _you’re_ agreeable,” Crowley said. “S’how you were raised, wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale hummed and approached the king. “You have _ink_ all over you, my dear. May I?”

Crowley looked stunned. “I—” He moved to step back, but Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder and held firm, reaching out and cleaning the smudges from his face.

“A gentleman of the court,” Aziraphale murmured, “is never tardy and never tense. He is never cross and never crass. He knows precisely what to do, and precisely what to say.” He drew back, satisfied with his work. “A gentleman of the court is exactly what the court desires, _when_ the court desires it.”

Crowley swallowed. “And kings?”

“Ha. I was never allowed to imagine I might entertain a king.”

“So I’m quite a catch for you.”

Aziraphale turned, tossing the towel onto the desk before he went to step onto the balcony. “Actually, I think you’re some form of _punishment._”

“Right,” Crowley said, coming up beside him. “The whole _snake_ thing.”

“Something like that.” Aziraphale looked at the table. “This is quite nice.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “I was rude.”

“You’d been traveling.”

“Hardly an excuse.”

“I _will_ say things you might not agree with,” Aziraphale said. “I need you to understand that.” He went and drew back one of the chairs, gesturing for Crowley to sit. Once he had, Aziraphale went to the other side and sat across from him. “My life was never anything like yours. If we are to get along until Summer, then we will simply have to agree to disagree.”

From inside there came a knock, and a handful of servants arrived with their dinner service. Once the table had been set, the wine poured and candles lit, they excused themselves and left.

Aziraphale sighed. “It won’t do you any good to lose your temper every time I say something you don’t _like._”

“I _didn’t_—” Crowley snarled.

Aziraphale held up his hand. “You’re _doing _it _again._”

Crowley’s mouth hung open like a fish until he busied himself drinking most of the wine in his glass.

After a few moments, he said, “While I’m sorry for the way I said it, I _won’t_ apologize for what I said.”

“Oh?”

“You.” He waved between them. “This..._thing_. I’m happy to have you here, if that’s what it will take to keep the Golden Court happy with my...indecisiveness. But I won’t _possess _you. The idea...disgusts me.”

It was an interesting sentiment. Aziraphale had spent so much time in the Golden Court feeling _owned_ by it, the concept of being his own person, a person _alongside_ the king, fascinated him. It was..._exciting._

“Then what will we be to one another, until Summer?” Aziraphale took a sip of his wine.

Crowley considered this, poking at his fish like it might be the reason for all this trouble from the start. “...Companions,” he said, finally. “I enjoy your company.”

“Already?”

“I don’t keep much company,” Crowley said.

“I will take that as a compliment then.”

Crowley looked startled, then _smiled._

Oh, he was _lovely_ when he did that. And he had beautiful eyes — a rich golden color that matched his auburn hair so _well_. He kept it pulled back from his face just a bit. When he turned, Aziraphale could see a serpent shaped pendant. He’d have to ask about all the snake imagery he saw in Virgil, and the castle itself. If Crowley wanted to deter people from thinking he could turn into one, he might need to choose a new symbol.

After a while they settled into pleasant chatter. Crowley didn’t read much, he hardly had the time but the Youngs sent books to the castle each month, and Crowley liked to pass them on to visitors.

“But you could read to me,” he said, leaning back as some of the servants cleared their dishes from the table.

“Of _course_,” Aziraphale said. He refilled their glasses and smiled. “It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

“Excellent. _Excellent._” Crowley was in a much better mood now. He made a very soft noise and stood, holding out his hand. Aziraphale hesitated, then took it, and allowed himself to be pulled inside. “Look,” Crowley said. “I had them find one in town, it was just sitting in someone’s foyer, gathering _dust._” He brought Aziraphale through a set of double doors, past his personal library, and into another set of rooms. There, against one of the walls, was a beautiful piano. Small, certainly nothing like the one he used to practice on at home, but far less ostentatious.

“Is it…”

“It’s tuned,” Crowley said, “and it’s yours.”

“_Mine._” Aziraphale didn’t have many things that were his. His books and little things like that, certainly, but he had been made, since he was a boy, to understand everything of his was simply gifted, or borrowed. Even the clothes on his back had been gifts collected over time either from his mother or members of the court. Gabriel never made it feel like he _owned_ anything.

But this —

Oh, it did _feel_ like his. Of course, it was in the deeper parts of the king’s suite, but why on earth should it be anywhere else? Aziraphale was here for Crowley’s benefit, to play and compose for him. It did his talents no good at all if he stay sequestered in his rooms, playing for the open sea.

“Play me something,” Crowley said gently. Aziraphale handed him his wine glass and sat down at the bench. Oh this was _something_, wasn’t it? This was really something, and here he sat, hands on ivory keys, and a _king_ in attendance. Crowley smiled and leaned against the wall beside the piano, watching.

Aziraphale breathed, and began to play.

Certainly not one of his own pieces. No, he’d have to save that, for when things had progressed. While he enjoyed Crowley’s company, he still felt the sting of the other night, of _rejection._ There was no reason why he might not change his mind, or perhaps even send Aziraphale back _sooner_ than the first week of Summer. No, he’d fall back on something a bit more established, something that showcased his talents and poise. Aziraphale was a wonderful performer, he knew that well. And his mother said so, all the time.

For a moment, as he moved his hands over the keys, leaning with the music, he suddenly _missed_ her. He missed her with a fiecersome longing, and the rest of the song, while played for Crowley, was really for _her._ No one had ever listened like his mother. No one had ever made him feel _loved_ the way she had. And she had hardly ever done _that._ She kept her distance, kept her affections close and numbered. Touches were rarely given out, kisses even less so.

That she had touched him, worried for him at all, before he left, was a gift he had taken too much for granted. He’d have to remember that in the future.

When he was done, Aziraphale took a deep breath and came back to himself. Crowley handed him the rest of his wine, and he drained it in one go.

“Very moving,” Crowley said, and touched Aziraphale’s shoulder for just a second. “Can you play for me again tomorrow? I need to finish making notes on this draft of the trade deal, and I’ve had _far_ too much to drink for them to be civil.”

Aziraphale laughed and stood. “Of course, your Majesty.”

Crowley grimaced. “Can you…” He sighed. “I understand your training is...preternatural. But I’d prefer if you just...called me Crowley. None of this _Majesty_ nonsense.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ll do my best.” He bit off the last of that sentence and gave a quick nod of his head. “I’ll leave you be.”

Crowley nodded, and they moved back to the first room and he opened the door. “Please see Aziraphale back to his rooms,” he instructed the guard. “Thank you,” he added, “for joining me.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Aziraphale said.

He kissed Crowley’s hand, this time, before being taken back to his rooms.

* * *

“I do love this stretch of beach,” Crowley said. “I played here as a boy, before my uncle forbid it.” They were enjoying a very grey Sunday by the sea, walking the length of beach Aziraphale could see from his balcony. “I haven’t come back enough.”

“You should enjoy it more,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nodded. “I should, you’re right. Some things are hard to...to shake off. I think you understand.”

“I do.”

“...Good.” They stopped and stood just outside the reach of the tide. Fishermen cast their nets from their boats into the waves. “Do your people know how beautiful it is here?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I was led to believe I was headed for Hell.”

Crowley laughed. “I suppose things were Hell here, once.”

“Your uncle.”

“Yes. My uncle.” He turned and they continued walking. “He wasn’t an easy man to get along with.”

“He raised you, though.”

“In a sense.” Crowley held his hands behind his back. The wind whipped at his hair and made his cheeks flush with the chill. Aziraphale had been longing to reach out and touch those cheeks. They were sharp and handsome, and he couldn’t _deny_ he was attracted. But they had an...arrangement, of sorts.

No contact. No touching. Never more than two bottles of wine. Neither seemed to trust themselves if anymore were to become involved.

“My parents were dead before I was one,” Crowley said. “I was raised by nursemaids at the Winter Palace until I was five. That’s when he came for me. Properly. I’d visited with him a bit before, but he wasn’t interested in an infant or a toddler.”

“A five year old is hardly better company.”

Crowley shrugged. “I assume that’s when his father began grooming him.”

“Grooming.”

“Yes, you’re _more_ than familiar with the concept, I’m sure. My uncle required certain things from me. Obedience, was one. I wasn’t very good at giving that to him.”

“My mother said...she said he—”

“Whatever she said is likely very true. My uncle was ruthless. I hated him. I learned to keep my mouth shut. Going into the dungeons...I couldn’t stand it. Seeing people tortured for disloyalty, for whatever crime he’d decided they’d committed. It took me _years_ to win back the trust of my people. It took until the War was over, actually.”

_Ah_, Aziraphale thought, _the War._

The Great War had been between the Northern kingdom, Aziraphale’s home, and the Western kingdom. From Aziraphale’s understanding, it had been over the very short border wall dividing Western farmland from Northern towns and then spiraled out of control from there. War wasn’t a fashionable topic of discussion in the Golden Court. Aziraphale’s knowledge was limited to gossip.

When the West had breached the Southern border, several of Crowley’s people were killed in the skirmishes. That was when the rumor first arose — that the Southern King had eyes like a serpent. In truth, he’d simply ridden to the border himself, pushing his horse through the night and arriving, nearly collapsed on her back, at dawn. It was just in time for the Western generals to see his pale, sunken face, streaked with blood, as he stood at the front of his miniscule army and demanded they turn and run.

He’d been _seventeen._ And run they did.

Everyone knew why. No king had ever ridden that long and that far on his own. No king had ever bothered to care enough about their border towns to defend them with voice alone.

Crowley was different. The _ways _he was different varied story to story, but the fact remained — he had done what no one else had, and his people thanked him for it, in time.

“I wondered something,” Crowley said. “The trade deal.”

“Yes.”

“Would you look at it?”

Aziraphale stopped walking, and Crowley turned to face him. “You don’t _mean_ that.”

“I do. Very much.”

“Well, _yes_, but you don’t _really_—”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley stepped close. “I think you are _clever._” Aziraphale reached out to fix his collar and Crowley rolled his eyes. “I think you’re a pain on top of it, but I don’t see why another set of eyes won’t hurt.”

“Clever,” Aziraphale said.

“Yes.”

“_Me._”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Crowley said. And then he leaned in and kissed Aziraphale’s forehead.

It was a _flagrant_ violation of the arrangement. Aziraphale had long suspected Crowley wasn’t much of a rule follower to begin with, but _this._ It was intimate, and kind.

“Come on,” Crowley said, and stretched out his hand for Aziraphale to take. They walked from the beach back to the castle, hands clasped together. “Tea,” Crowley said to Madame Tracy, when they arrived, “and a spot of lunch, when chef has the time.”

“Of course, sir.” She nodded and watched them go up the stairs.

* * *

“So you _won’t_ agree to the tax.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And you refuse to allow Northern boats to fish here.”

“They have no idea how we do it,” Crowley said, crossing off another line in the draft. “Your lot will fish us dry in less than a decade.”

Aziraphale had to admit, the North tended to get a bit...overzealous. He sighed. “Well, we’ll have to think of something.”

“What would the North want with fish anyway?”

“To _eat,_” Aziraphale said. He sighed and sat down on the sofa. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m trying to protect my people,” he said. “My _interests._”

Aziraphale tossed the papers onto the table between then. “Your country has access to _several_ things the North does not. Things the North would _gladly_ pay for. I don’t know why you won’t agree to giving them access to the border orchards, or this _ridiculous_ amount of grain you produce. Do you know how hard it is for us to grow wheat?”

Crowley looked up. “Wheat?”

“Yes! This...this _enormous_ amount of grain you grow so close to the border! You have so much of it, and you refuse to part with an ounce—”

Crowley grabbed the papers. “...How—”

“Didn’t you noticed?”

“Well I _knew_ we were growing it, but I didn’t know we were growing that _much_ of it. What’ve we been doing with it?”

“It’s your kingdom,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Yes, I know that, but I didn’t really think about...about how _much_…” He looked at Aziraphale. “I need to find out where this is going,” he said.

“Of course.” Aziraphale stood and excused himself, while Crowley began ringing the bell for Madame Tracy. He felt extremely pleased with himself, at how _flustered_ Crowley was when he’d left. For some reason it brought him incredible joy, and he let the feeling carry him through the rest of the day and into the next three. He didn’t see Crowley at all, not for the rest of the week, and into the weekend. He wasn’t put out by this — he went into town and chatted with the Youngs, with Anathema and the young man who was attempting to woo her. He read and wrote, indulged in a letter from his mother and then indulged in writing one _to_ her.

When Crowley finally sent for him, Aziraphale found him collapsed in a chair on the balcony, _in the rain_, and half asleep.

“...Crowley.”

He jerked awake, and then stood, grabbing Aziraphale by his shoulders and kissing both his cheeks.

“You _bloody genius_,” he said, grinning madly. “I adore you, do you know that?”

Aziraphale had been in Crowley’s company for barely two months, now. He hadn’t realized that at all.

“What...happened?”

“The wheat! The _wheat_ happened! There’s so much of it, and they agreed! They agreed and they’ll be using the orchards on the border and we’ll be sending salt and we’ll get _beef._ We haven’t had proper amounts of beef in _decades_, did you know that?” He shook Aziraphale and kissed his cheek again. “You’re brilliant, aren’t you? My _guardian angel._”

Aziraphale was stunned. He had never felt so _adored_. Crowley looked him up and down, looked like he wanted to...like he _wanted_ —

“I’m so glad,” Aziraphale said, and extracted himself from Crowley’s grip. Aziraphale gathered up his hands and kissed his knuckles. “Do you feel relieved?”

“_Yes_,” Crowley said, and went inside from the rain. He tugged his hair loose from its pin and it fell in damp curls over his shoulders. Aziraphale swallowed. “We should celebrate,” he said. “We should go away.”

“Go away?”

“Yes! To the country estate. It’s spring, the apple trees will be blooming. The apricots will be growing, they’ll be picking them in a week.” He nodded, moving around the room and going to ring the bell for Madame Tracy. “There’s octopus, too. Have you had octopus? We can take the sailboat out of course, it’ll be a bit choppy but not for too long. Have you gone sailing? I haven’t gone in ages, I wonder if I remember anything. Only thing my uncle wasn’t cruel about, sailing.”

Aziraphale watched him fondly. He had never seen him so _excited_, so _active._

It suited him.

He went over and stopped Crowley from moving.

“I would _love_ to go sailing,” he said, and kissed his brow.

Crowley grinned. “_Angel_,” he said.

Aziraphale’s heart skipped several beats, all at once. He doubted that was good for one’s health.

* * *

The country estate was a little further South. Crowley said they also called in the Spring Palace, though it was hardly palatial. As they arrived, Aziraphale had to disagree.

It was a gorgeous brick estate, with cherry trees on the verge of blooming lining the drive up. When the carriage pulled to the front of the estate, he could see the apricot orchard along the Eastern side of the property, the apple trees on the West.

“We used to come here in the fall, too,” Crowley said, stepping out and lending Aziraphale a hand. “Name’s never sat quite right with me.”

“Only _you_ could come to this absolutely gorgeous place and find something to complain about,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley grinned. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know how you could stand to live anywhere else.”

Crowley glanced the place over. “This is the only place I think my uncle was every truly happy,” he said. “Because of the sailing, probably. He was only ever happy on the boat.”

Aziraphale touched his shoulder. “You’ll have to show me.”

Crowley nodded. “Of course.” He glanced at the sky. “I should go in and write to my advisors, make sure the rest of the deal goes through. Enjoy the place for the afternoon, I’ll see you at dinner.” He pressed squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and went inside.

Madame Tracy and her husband, Sergeant Shadwell, had arrived the day before for, apparently, _security reasons_, so Aziraphale’s room was more than ready for him. He collapsed onto the bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep for most of the afternoon. By the time he woke up, it was almost dinner. He washed his face, changed his clothes, and went looking for the dining room. A young servant girl rescued him after fifteen minutes of wandering around. Crowley was buried in correspondence still, but he set it aside when Aziraphale came in and stood.

“You look wonderful,” he said, and pulled out a chair.

“Oh! Well...well _thank you._” Aziraphale glanced at the letters. “I hope you don’t intend to do that the _entire_ time we’re here.”

“Hm?” Crowley was watching the butler pour wine. “The letters? No, of course not. Everything is going off without a hitch, I just want to be kept informed.”

“Shouldn’t you be there for the formal signing?”

“I signed my half. I’ve no desire to meet your king. Not when I could be_ here_.” He lifted his glass and took a sip.

His clothes, Aziraphale noted, were too dark against the soft colors of the Spring Palace. But his eyes — oh his _eyes_ were bright and shining. Aziraphale had long been entranced by them, never quite sure what to say about them, or how to say it without sounding...attached.

Because he was. And they were. Crowley would watch him read, sometimes, when he thought Aziraphale couldn’t see. And he would lean too close when he played piano, or when they stood on the balcony. They abandoned most tenants of the arrangement and held hands freely. Aziraphale was being, to the best of his abilities, the king’s _companion. _But more than that — Crowley felt like a companion to _him_, too.

“We’ll go sailing tomorrow,” Crowley said. “You’d like that?”

“Very much.”

“And when they start picking the apricots, we can go and help.”

“_Help?_” Aziraphale laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

Crowley frowned. “Of course I am. Ah. _Your_ king, he doesn’t do that, does he?”

“Of course not.”

Crowley laughed. “I thought you’d have realized by now. I am no ordinary king.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “You certainly are _not._”

They smiled at one another. Attachment was _infantile_ compared to what Aziraphale was starting to feel.

In the morning, he woke early and dressed in something comfortable. He found he enjoyed the duller, muted toned clothes his mother had packed for him, but over the last few weeks he’d outfitted himself with a more...Southern wardrobe. Soft blue tunics with tartan patterns here and there, a maroon shirt and dark pants for the evening. Even little things embroidered with snakes, which he was _very_ certain Crowley noticed.

Today he wore a dark blue tunic and brown pants with sturdy boots, and a gold cord for a belt. Nothing like the things he’d worn entertaining the men of the Golden Court. When he saw himself in the mirror, he hardly recognized his own reflection — his normally short and tidy hair had grown out into longer curls he had to comb properly each morning. His legs had grown stronger over the last few months from frequent walks along the coast.

And he _smiled_ more. It was a strange thing, to know that about yourself. But Aziraphale knew.

Crowley was waiting for him in the dining room, basket in hand. “We’ll breakfast on the boat,” he said, and took Aziraphale’s arm. They walked down to the docks together, where a few servants were finishing preparations with the boat.

“All ready for you, your Majesty.”

“Appreciated, Henry.” Crowley stepped up and onto the boat, then offered Aziraphale his hand.

Aziraphale hesitated.

“...You’ve never been on a boat, have you?”

“...Well. Well not _technically._”

Crowley laughed. “What does _that_ mean?”

“I mean there was a party on a boat I attended once, but it was...well the boat was on _land_, not on the sea. Though it did rock, to simulate the waves. Gabriel got sick, it was really quite funny.” He was rambling. He was _nervous._

Crowley’s hand hung between them.

“Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale was surprised, not for the first time, to see how quickly he’d started to answer to the nickname. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well of _course_ you won’t,” he murmured, and took Crowley’s hand.

They were very close, lips just an inch apart. Aziraphale wanted to taste them, he wanted to so _much._

Crowley laughed. “See? Easy.” He stepped away, set the basket down, and in a few moments they were moving onto the open water.

* * *

“And of course by that point I’d already insulted the countess _and_ her sister by wearing the wrong cravat, so my brother made me sit in a library for the rest of the night. Which I enjoyed so much he was furious with me for _weeks_ after.”

“Gabriel sounds like a prick,” Crowley muttered, tossing a nectarine pit into the ocean. The boat was solid and comfortable beneath them. Their shoulders were pressed together, their hands lingering side by side. Aziraphale wanted to kiss him, wanted to lick the juice from the corner of his mouth and chase the taste of wine across his tongue. He nearly _moaned_ at the thought — years of keeping men company, and he’d never _wanted_ one the way he wanted Crowley.

Crowley shifted beside him. “We used to go swimming off the side.”

“Crowley, the water is _frigid._”

Crowley shrugged. “Never stopped us.”

“Us…”

“My uncle and me.”

Aziraphale sat up. “So you...there were good moments, then.”

“I told you.” Crowley undid his belt and began to shrug out of his tunic. “He was only ever happy on _this_ boat.”

And then he was naked.

Aziraphale looked away.

“Ha! You’re _blushing!_”

“Well I wasn’t _expecting_—”

“Oh, come on now. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Not where _you’re_ concerned.”

Crowley was still laughing, and when Aziraphale looked, he was doubled over, and Aziraphale could see the swell of his ass, the freckled skin of his thighs. He was so _thin_, it was hard to see under the dark clothes that were always too big for him. Aziraphale watched him stand, took in the soft length of his cock, and swallowed.

“The men I...the ones I spend my time with...we are never as comfortable as I am with you.”

Crowley tipped his head to the side. “What does that mean?”

“We are not _friends_,” Aziraphale said. “Not...not the way you and I are.”

“...Friends.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked away again.

When he glanced back, Crowley was diving off the boat, body slicing through the water.

* * *

They were silent on the ride back in, silent through dinner later that night and their coffee afterwards.

Crowley finally asked, “Would you walk through the garden with me?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and stood. They walked a foot apart from one another, both trying not to touch. There were roses, hedges and hedges of them. Different colors and sizes. Aziraphale stopped to smell one, and he heard Crowley laugh.

“You’re a fascinating creature.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Explain yourself.”

Crowley pointed. “That! When you do _that!_ You just...tell me what to do, you tell me what to say. Have you always been that way?”

“I can be. I tend not to, but when the moment calls for it.” He shrugged. “Does it bother you?”

Crowley shook his head. “No,” he said, “on the contrary. I enjoy it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Did it upset you, what I said today? How I...reacted?” Crowley raised a brow and kept walking. Aziraphale was starting to get frustrated. “You can’t just _do_ that, you know! Just...just _walk away_, when you don’t like what I’m saying.”

“Of course I can. I’m the king, I can do as I please.”

“Oh, well, _certainly_. Pardon me for thinking, just a _moment_, you would deign to treat me better than anyone else I’ve ever...anyone I’ve…” Aziraphale huffed and stalked past him. He would enjoy the roses, enjoy the garden and the palace. He would _enjoy himself_ no matter —

“...I’ve never had friends,” Crowley said quietly, and Aziraphale stopped. Turned back to look at him.

Crowley looked very small in his dark clothes, arms dangling at his sides.

“I was never...I wasn’t allowed.”

“_Crowley_.” Aziraphale closed the distance between them. “My dear…”

“If I am your first friend then you have to know you’re...you’re _mine_, too. And you must know how terrible it’s been for me the last two weeks, to think of you as my friend, but also...to _want_—”

Aziraphale put a finger to his lips. “Hush.”

Crowley went quiet.

“You have a heart, the rumors are just rumors. And hearts can hold _so much_. Why should ours be any different?”

Crowley took his hand, pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s fingers and palm. “_This is my beloved_,” he murmured.

Aziraphale smiled. “_And this is my friend._” He reached up and carded his fingers through gorgeous curls. “Won’t you kiss me?” he asked.

“Only if it’s what you want. Not if it’s what you think I want to hear, or what I want from you. Not if—”

Aziraphale kissed him. Pressed his fingers to the back of his head and held him close. Crowley’s mouth opened, hot and soft, against his own and he _moaned_.

Aziraphale chased wine and lemon, breathed in the heady aroma of spring roses —

Crowley pulled back. “_Angel._”

“I love when you call me that,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, I _love_ when you—” Another kiss. Fiercer, firmer, with _feeling._ They sunk down into the cool grass, and Aziraphale rolled onto his back, Crowley’s hands on either side of his head. He grinned up at him, parted the curtain of red framing his face, and drew him back down.

“_His mouth is most sweet. Yea, he is altogether lovely._”

“You say that to all the kings,” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said, tipping his head back and letting Crowley pepper hot kisses down the column of his throat. “You’re my first. My very first king.”

_And, I desperately wish, my last._

“Angel,” Crowley said. “Angel, angel, _angel._”

“Don’t stop,” Aziraphale pleaded. “Oh, don’t stop.” Crowley hand snaked up his tunic, then began untying the strings of his breeches. “_Crowley._”

“May I?” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale nodded.

“_Please._”

“Fuck, I love that sound. You,” Crowley said, as his hand dipped below, and found Aziraphale’s hardening cock, “begging for me.” He moaned as he wrapped his hand around it. “You promise it’s not an act. You _swear_—”

“Of course it’s not.”

“No,” Crowley murmured, “there’s no faking this, is there?”

“_Oh._” Aziraphale arched into his touch, gasping for breath, hand fisting in Crowley’s hair. “Crowley!”

“I have wanted to watch you come for days. I’ve thought about it, fucked my _fist_ thinking about it.” His words set Aziraphale alight, crying out as Crowley pace quickened. “Beautiful,” Crowley murmured. “So beautiful under me like this.” He slowed down again, and Aziraphale whimpered. “Don’t worry, little angel. I’ll give you what you want.” Crowley smiled, slid his hand down to the base of Aziraphale’s cock, and slipped him into his mouth.

Aziraphale had had his cocked sucked many times. More often than not, he was the one on his knees. Aziraphale’s role in the bedroom was often about power, and who possessed it.

Out here, on his back in the garden, his cock in Crowley’s mouth, one hand buried in Crowley’s hair, the other twisting in the grass uselessly until Crowley held it with his free hand — he realized he had never been an equal.

For the first time, he felt like one. And it was that thought which pushed him over the edge, had him coming in Crowley’s mouth with a hard, desperate cry.

He opened his eyes. He’d only just become aware he’d closed them. Stars blinked overhead, and Aziraphale felt his entire body uncoil as Crowley pulled his cock out of his mouth, then dragged his tongue up the length.

“Do you…” he tried, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Crowley laughed. “I, um.” He cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright, I’m happy to—”

“I came,” Crowley said, looking down as he sat up. “It’s been a while,” he confessed.

Aziraphale laughed and kissed him. “Such a shame,” he said, feeling his strength coming back. “I wanted a taste.”

“Later,” Crowley murmured. “There’ll be time.”

They stood and Aziraphale fixed his breeches and tunic, but they wouldn’t have fooled anyone. There was grass in Aziraphale’s hair and the knees of Crowley’s pants were a mess. They laughed and fumbled their way up the stairs. Aziraphale had to stop at one point and kiss Crowley expansively against the railing, already undoing the belt of his tunic.

“A _minute_, angel.”

“I’d have you here if I could.”

“You might,” Crowley said. Aziraphale slid a knee between his legs and Crowley ground himself down onto it.

At the top of the stairs, they stopped. To go to his rooms, Aziraphale needed to go left. Crowley needed to go right.

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. “I—”

“You’ll come to bed with me,” Crowley said, and cupped his cheek. Aziraphale looked at him. “Those are the orders of a king,” he said. “Will you disobey them?”

Aziraphale’s knees nearly bucked. “God, no.”

“Good choice, angel.” Crowley took his hand and pulled him into his room.

* * *

In the night, they lay very close, Crowley’s head under Aziraphale’s chin, while Aziraphale satisfied his long seated desire to comb his fingers through Crowley’s hair over and over again.

_What a pair_, he thought. He had never considered whether the men he entertained in the Golden Court had been lonely. They’d never wanted to speak of things like that. But Crowley...Crowley _admitted_ to his solitude. To his isolation which had started as something put upon him, and turned into something he’d imposed on himself.

“When you go,” Crowley said, “you’ll still be my only friend.”

“Don’t say things like that. Now you’ve had a taste for it, I’m sure you’ll make a whole mess of friends.”

“I’ve had a taste for you,” Crowley murmured. It should have been something to laugh at.

Instead, it grabbed Aziraphale’s heart and _pulled._

“Don’t think on it,” Aziraphale said, and kissed the top of his head.

* * *

They had every intention of going downstairs for breakfast and spending the morning and afternoon on the beach.

The morning, at the very lEast, was spent almost entirely in bed.

Aziraphale woke with the memory of the night before fresh on his mind and tongue, and he was hard. Crowley dipped below the sheets and took him into his mouth. He came with a sigh, tugging on Crowley’s hair and dragging him up to kiss him, licking the taste of his own seed from Crowley’s mouth.

He’d seen Crowley’s cock the day before, on the boat, but it was a different thing entirely when it was fat and stiff in Aziraphale’s hand. He sucked on the tip, licking at the precum that pearled there, before taking him almost entirely to the base.

“_Fuck._” Crowley thrust up, but Aziraphale was experienced. He’d been with men far more eager than Crowley, men who wanted to fuck his mouth raw. It was something one grew accustomed to, over time.

Crowley was older than many of the men Aziraphale had been with. He was gentler, more experienced, and less eager for it to be over. He wanted the entire morning to drag on and on. He wanted to _fuck_ Aziraphale, to be buried inside him and come deep and hard. But they were too quick for any of that, and Aziraphale refused to have the _king_ spend his entire day in bed.

“What will your staff think?”

“I don’t bloody _care_ what the staff think,” Crowley snapped, after he’d begrudgingly bathed and dressed. Aziraphale was still picking out a tunic. “Wear this one,” Crowley said. He handed Aziraphale one with snakes embroidered on the collar.

Aziraphale raised a brow. “Why?”

Crowley leaned in behind him, sliding his hands down and over the swell of Aziraphale’s ass and to his thighs, giving them a squeeze. “You look good in it.”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with it having—”

Crowley bit his neck. Not hard enough to draw blood, but certainly hard enough to bruise. Aziraphale moaned and gripped the shirt in his hands.

“_Wear it_,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tugged it on and lashed the belt around his waist. “Happy?” he asked, _breathless._

“Incandescently,” Crowley murmured, and they went downstairs for breakfast.

* * *

The apricot trees were heavy and swollen with fruit. A week after they’d arrived, Crowley took Aziraphale down to the orchard to show him.

“Do you really help?”

“Would I lie to you, angel?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said dryly, and dodged a gentle swipe. He laughed and shielded his eyes as he looked down the hill toward the orchard. “Who picks the fruit?”

“Anyone from the villages nearby.” Crowley pointed, and over a hill, Aziraphale could see a town. “It pays well.” He took a few steps ahead and waved at someone down the hill. One of the men from the village was in charge, and he looked Aziraphale up and down a few times before Crowley vouched for him. “We won’t get in your way, Thomas.”

“Aye, your Majesty. See that you don’t!” The man laughed and whistled, and everyone picked up their baskets and got to work.

Aziraphale stood very still until Crowley pressed a basket into his hands. “Just pick the fruit,” he said, before picking a tree of his own.

It was strange, Aziraphale thought, to see a _king_ out here like this, picking fruit and laughing with his subjects. Stranger still to see them treat him like...like just another villager. Like a good friend from far away. Children ran up and clutched at his tunic until he gave them fruit from his basket. He hefted a boy onto his shoulders to reach from from one of the higher branches and kissed the top of his head as he sat him down. Women brought their babies to him, children brought their puppies. Men asked him about the capitol, about the state of the trade deal.

When the took a break for lunch, Crowley ate with the townspeople — crusty bread and homemade cheese with sausage wrapped in wax paper. They ate fruit from the trees and Crowley laughed when the children through the pits at him.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but be endeared, and his affection must have been quite obvious, because one of the women said to him, “The king looks quite happy, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does.”

“You’re the Northern boy, aren’t you? Sent to help the trade deal go smoothly?”

“I, um.” Aziraphale tugged at his belt. “Well, I suppose—”

“No shame in it,” the woman said kindly. “The king admires you, we can tell.”

“How?” Aziraphale asked, a bit desperately.

She laughed. “Not just anyone gets to come pick fruit with his Majesty.”

“Not just any king picks fruit with his subjects.”

“Yes,” she said, and stood to get back to work. “We’re all lucky in our own ways.”

Aziraphale watched her heft her basket onto her shoulder. When he turned back to Crowley, he found him staring.

They helped until dinner. Crowley made sure everyone was paid, and took Aziraphale’s hand, leading him back up the hill to the estate. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.

“Very much.”

“You seemed to.”

“Your people really do love you.”

Crowley laughed. “Another rumor, then?” Aziraphale nodded. “Not as good as the snake one,” he said, and brought Aziraphale inside.

They slept well that night, bathed and exhausted. Aziraphale woke in the morning with Crowley curled around him, and the feeling of desperation settled a bit deeper in his gut.

There were two months of Spring left, he realized, just before he pushed the thought from his mind. _No_, he thought, _best not to think on that._ He would enjoy the time he had, and wasn’t he excited to go back home? To tell people what he’d seen, what the king and his Southern kingdom were really like? Didn’t he want to go back to the court he’d grown up in, go back to —

_Oh_, it hit him like an apricot to the top of his head.

_No_. He didn’t want to do that. He wanted to stay _here_. He wanted to stay with Crowley, stay with his people. He wanted to be loved and admired, he wanted Crowley to look at him the way he did every morning for the rest of his natural life. He wanted to travel between palaces and keep company with the king. He wanted to tease and toy with him, tell him just how he liked to be touched.

Aziraphale wanted to be _in_ love. He wanted to finally be on equal footing, and have a home of his own. He felt, as sure as anything, that home was with Crowley.

But he was exhausted, beat down from a day in the orchard, and not even the fear of losing _all that_ could keep him away a second longer.

* * *

“What if we entertained?”

Crowley looked up from his breakfast and frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Crowley. You have this _beautiful_ home, and you don’t do anything with it!” Aziraphale looked around. “It’s absolutely perfect for having people over. You could have a dinner, invite the mayor of the town and some nearby nobles. I know there are some, you told me about the land disputes. You were very specific about who—”

“Fine.” Crowley went back to his food.

“...What?”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said. “If you’d like to plan something, plan something. Have you fixed up the libraries like you wanted, by the way? You said they were a wreck.”

“I...yes,” Aziraphale said, taken aback. “I started.” Crowley had given him free reign over the libraries in the Spring Palace, and Aziraphale had found them to be in a terrible state. Each day, he’d been cleaning them up, and he was nearly finished. “Thank you,” he added. “I’ve enjoyed myself.”

Crowley smiled over his spoon. “I thought you might,” he said, and winked. “Two of my advisors are arriving in an hour, if you remember, so I’ll be busy until dinner. Talk to Madame Tracy,” he added, “if you’d like to do something.” He finished his food and stood, reaching out and lifting Aziraphale’s chin. “You may do whatever you’d like,” he said softly, and leaned down for a kiss.

When he pulled back Aziraphale couldn’t see quite right for several seconds, his vision hazy with love.

* * *

Madame Tracy, of course, knew exactly who to invite. “You leave that bit to me,” she said. “And I’ll ask about musicians, too. I’m sure the locals have more than their fair share.”

“I’d like to invite the mayor and his family.”

“An excellent idea.”

“And the pickers, if they’re willing.”

Madame Tracy sighed. “Less might be than you’d think. They love their king, but they’re not overly fond of the local rich folks.”

“Fair enough,” Aziraphale said, and went to talk to the groundskeeper about hanging lights in the orchard.

Over the next week he plotted and planned. Crowley was in the middle of signing the final draft of the trade deal. By the time of the party, he’d be done. It would be the perfect way to finish the whole thing off, Aziraphale decided.

“We haven’t had anyone here since before my uncle,” Crowley said one evening, his head pillowed in Aziraphale’s lap while Aziraphale read to him. “Perhaps I’ll stay upstairs.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s really _your_ party—”

“Crowley.”

Crowley huffed. “_Fine._”

They went to bed not long after, which was really just an excuse for Crowley to get Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth. When Aziraphale had come, Crowley sat up and asked, “Are you worried it won’t mean anything if I fuck you?”

Aziraphale pushed himself up onto his elbows. “What?”

“I want to fuck you,” Crowley said. “But you...it doesn’t seem like you want that. And if that’s true, then I won’t. It’s just…” He kissed Aziraphale’s stomach. “It would mean something, if you’re worried about that. It would _matter_ to me.”

Aziraphale carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair. He knew. He knew it would matter to Crowley.

Perhaps that’s why he was hesitating. _Because_ it would mean so much. To the _both_ of them.

“...Not yet,” Aziraphale said, gentle as he could manage. “But soon.” He brought Crowley up to him and kissed his forehead.

Crowley laughed. “Alright, angel. But you should know—” He stopped and kissed Aziraphale’s chin. “If it never happens, if you’re never ready, it won’t change a thing. I’ll still adore you,” he murmured, “no matter what.”

Aziraphale felt those words in his bones, long after Crowley had fallen asleep.

* * *

The party was a success.

Aziraphale had worried that Crowley would be stiff and uncomfortable. He’d argued when Aziraphale had dressed him in a dark red tunic and black breeches. “Not my _look_, angel,” he’d muttered, but Aziraphale had to disagree. He was beautiful, holding court at the head of the table, talking to the mayor and introducing him to one of the noble families who lived nearby. Aziraphale spent his evening discussing poetry with some of the guests that had tagged along with the wealthier invites, and wasn’t put out by it one bit.

“Angel.” Crowley leaned down by Aziraphale’s ear. “Will you take a walk with me? To get some air.”

Aziraphale looked up at him and smiled. “Of course,” he said, and took Crowley’s hand. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, and followed Crowley up the stairs. They found an empty balcony, and Crowley closed the doors behind them. “Are you—”

Crowley kissed him, crowding him against the railing, one hand rucking up Aziraphale’s tunic, the other mussing his hair.

“_Crowley._”

“I’ve been watching you all night,” Crowley murmured. “Been wanting to _touch_ you.”

“You have _guests._”

“They’ll be around for ages. You think Lord Wallace is going to leave any time soon?” Aziraphale laughed. “But you...you’re leaving me.”

“...Yes.” Aziraphale had hoped Crowley might change his mind. That he might beg for Aziraphale to stay on. It wasn’t his place, however, to ask for permanent residence. If his mother found out, she’d be mortified. Instead, he smiled, taking Crowley’s face in his hands and kissing him back. “Then we’ll have to enjoy ourselves, won’t we?” He slotted a knee between Crowley’s legs and pressed _up._ Crowley pitched forward with a moan. “Best not to make a mess of our new clothes.”

“You’re _wicked._”

“Call a man _angel_ long enough, and he’ll want to prove you wrong, my dear.” Aziraphale pulled back and turned, looking out on the garden and the orchard. They could be seen, he was sure, but what did it matter what the _king_ did with his time? Everyone knew who Aziraphale was, why he’d been sent South. No sense in faking propriety _now. _

“You did a wonderful job,” Crowley finally said. “Truly.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I like everything you do,” Crowley said, and kissed Aziraphale’s neck.

_Oh_, that was nice. That was so _very_ nice. Aziraphale turned and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s neck and let him absolutely _ravage_ his mouth. Aziraphale nearly came right there, thinking about the idea of doing this with Crowley every year, of being inches away from _making love_ on this balcony every year —

“_Tonight_,” he said. “Oh, my dear—”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes. I mean it.”

Crowley pulled back, and he looked _wrecked._

“Tonight,” he repeated, and Aziraphale nodded. “You expect me to _wait_?” he asked. “After this?”

Aziraphale laughed and kissed him. “Does his Majesty possess no patience? No temperance?” He pressed a thumb to Crowley’s lips. “Tonight, my dear. Just a bit longer, and you may have anything you desire.” Aziraphale smiled and left him there on the balcony before going back inside to rejoin the party.

* * *

Aziraphale knew how this game was played, he’d practically created it. Crowley wanted something, and Aziraphale was certainly prepared to give it to him, there was no doubt about that — but one didn’t rush a fine wine to aging. And so, they waited until the last of their guests had left, and Aziraphale lingered in the kitchens, complimenting the staff and asking about a particular vintage he’d tasted with his fish at dinner.

By the time he found Crowley, the man was pacing at the top of the stairs, looking _ravenous._

“Ah, _there_ you are,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been looking _up_ and down—” He yelped as Crowley grabbed his hand and dragged him into Crowley’s rooms, shutting the door behind them. “My _dear_—”

“Cut the act,” Crowley snarled, and kissed him, hard.

“But you like it,” Aziraphale said, and pushed him back. Crowley stumbled, and Aziraphale grinned. “You’ve been watching me all evening, and now you can barely contain yourself.” He undid the belt of his tunic and let it fall to the floor. “You were the one, weren’t you? Who said you had no desire to..._oh, _what was it you _said_, my dear?”

Crowley was undoing the laces of his breeches, breathing like a madman, his grin wide and _wicked._ He looked ready to _consume_. Aziraphale had no qualms about being eaten. “Remind me, _angel._”

Aziraphale stepped closer and sunk to his knees in front of Crowley. One hand immediately slid into his hair, as Aziraphale finished loosening Crowley’s breeches, and tugged them down. “No need to possess me, is what you said. No need to own me.” He brushed his knuckles along the length of Crowley’s cock, feeling it stiffen beneath his touch. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing,” Crowley murmured. “You’d be impossible to possess. Far too argumentative.”

“Yes, most people prefer their pets to be well behaved, don’t they?” He pressed his lips to the base of Crowley’s cock. “But not you.”

“I like a challenge.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, and slid Crowley into his mouth.

He wasn’t on his knees very long. Crowley’s legs were trembling, from anticipation or pleasure, Aziraphale couldn’t tell. But he was pulled onto his feet after only a few minutes and shoved back toward the bed. “Get undressed,” Crowley ordered. He was already pulling off his own clothes, and Aziraphale quickly complied.

This wasn’t new to him — men who wanted to be in charge. It was the first time he’d really _enjoyed_ it in quite some time, though. Crowley’s eagerness was endearing, his greedy hands that finished undressing Aziraphale for him were a welcome thing.

When Aziraphale was naked, he laid out on the bed and Crowley clambered after him, settling between Aziraphale’s legs with a long sigh. He ran his hands up the length of them and swallowed. “I can’t believe I’ve...that all this time I—” He hung his head. “Nevermind.”

“Crowley—”

“You do want this, don’t you?” Crowley bent down and laved his tongue over one of Aziraphale’s nipples. He blew on it. “You want _me?_”

Trembling bravado. Did all kings possess it, Aziraphale wondered. He didn’t want to know, not if it meant giving this one up.

“Of course I want this.” He drew Crowley in to kiss him fully. “I want _you._”

Crowley looked stunned. It was as if everything they’d done leading up to this moment had been yet another game, and Crowley was only now becoming aware it was quite real. He blinked through his personal haze, and Aziraphale had to laugh.

“Did you think I’d deceive you?”

“At first,” Crowley admits, “yes. Yes, I did.”

“And now?”

Crowley closed his eyes. His expression was cutting, open in the moonlight and every part of Aziraphale wanted to reach out and touch. Reach out and comfort. There were worry lines around Crowley’s mouth and eyes, bits of silver dotting his temples. He was _younger_ than Aziraphale, but he behaved years older.

“Now I’m wondering why I’ve decided to send you away after all. If I’ve been a fool.”

Aziraphale shushed him. “Can we think on that later? Can’t all our worries come tomorrow? Or the day after? I only want to be with you, I only want to _feel_ you. Nothing else, my love. _Nothing else._”

Crowley nodded, and reached for something beside the bed. There had been for some days a small tray of oils they’d been using. Aziraphale tensed as the cork in one came off with a pop, and the scent of clean linens filled the room. He bent one knee as Crowley reached down and began to tease the tight ring of muscle between Aziraphale’s cheeks. Aziraphale hissed at the contact, but didn’t ask him to stop. It was just his nerves, shocking one another in a ceaseless loop — feedback, reaction, _sensation_. Aziraphale moaned as one finger slid inside him, angling for space. He watched as Crowley’s other hand began to stroke his cock, slicking it with oil in preparation.

“I can’t wait to have you inside me,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, my dear, another, when you’re ready.”

“Of course, angel. Of course.” Crowley pulled his finger out, then replaced it with two. He started up a good and steady pace that was slowly driving Aziraphale _mad_ with want. He wanted to be full, to be _taken._

Crowley rested his forehead on Aziraphale’s sternum while he stretched him open, red curls spilling over Aziraphale’s chest.

“I love these. I have since I laid eyes on them.”

“Another?” Crowley begged. Aziraphale nodded. Crowley eased a third finger inside him, stroking his cock with more fervor.

“Don’t make yourself come.”

“I won’t.”

“I want you to do that inside me,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley groaned. “Just a bit more, love. Just _right_ there, oh that’s—” Aziraphale gasped. “_Fuck._” Crowley’s head snapped up. He pushed in like that again, then dipped his head down to lick up the length of Aziraphale’s cock. “_Crowley_.”

“Tell me you’re ready.”

“I _am_, I’m ready, just _please_—” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley withdrew his fingers. “Love, oh _love_—”

With a moan, a roll of his hips — Crowley pushed into him. Not completely. It was all a bit much for them both. Crowley tensed as he sunk deeper, but Aziraphale brushed the hair from his face and said, “Don’t be afraid.”

“_Aziraphale._” Oh, his _name._ He loved the way it sounded on Crowley’s tongue, filling the air between them, crackling like unkept promises. “Can I—”

“_Yes._ Crowley, whatever you want, whatever you’d like, it’s yours, just _please_—” Aziraphale cried out as Crowley thrust into him completely. His pace was slow and steady, at first, until both of them were writhing with need and he began to fuck Aziraphale in earnest.

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered, “_fuck._” He groaned with the effort, pushing harder each time. Aziraphale wound his legs around Crowley’s waist pinning them together. “Look how good you are for me,” Crowley said. “Look how _beautiful_ you are, just like this.

“Crowley!”

“All these years, I was alone. And you were just out of reach, weren’t you?” Crowley moaned again, thrusting faster. “I wasn’t ready for you. I was angry and terrible and I wasn’t _ready._”

“More, _more_—”

“Aziraphale, oh _Aziraphale._”

“Don’t stop.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Like _perfection,_” Aziraphale managed. And it was so very _true._ Aziraphale had been fucked countless times, but no one fit him like Crowley. No one dug into him, drove into him, lifted him up like Crowley.

Crowley pulled out and Aziraphale _whined._

“What—”

“Sit,” Crowley commanded, falling onto his back. “Let me see you. Take what you want, let me watch.”

Aziraphale scrambled to straddle his waist, holding his cock in one hand and easing down onto it. A different angle, a different way of watching Crowley fall apart.

“Oh, _yes_,” he said, and began to fuck himself in earnest. “Just like this, then? This is how you want me?”

“I want you always,” Crowley said. “Touch yourself. You’re so pretty when you do that.”

Aziraphale laughed and wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking in time with the motion of his hips. Crowley rose to meet him and they met with a slap of skin on skin and Crowley’s cock struck him deep each time. He was going to come, he was going to lose himself in this completely, and Aziraphale had no problems with that.

“Crowley, _Crowley_—”

“Come for me, angel. Let me see it.”

“Yes, _yes_, I can, I will, I—” Aziraphale squeezed his cock and cried out, coming with a twist of his fingers as Crowley’s cock continued filling him. Come hit his chest and neck and chin. A moment later, Crowley rolled him to his back and began to fuck him _ruthlessly_, shouting his name and getting a hand in his hair and _pulling._

Aziraphale was already wrung out, but if he’d been capable of it, he’d have come a second time right then. Crowley was wild against him, spreading his legs back and drawing out completely before he sunk in, _hard._

“_Aziraphale_—” Crowley came with a shout, and Aziraphale _felt_ it as Crowley filled him. He gave a few final thrusts and pulled out with a moan.

They lay that way for a few moments. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s come slipping from him, and he was satisfied.

“My dear—”

Crowley waved him off. “_Ngk_.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’ll just go clean myself up,” he said, and moved to get out of bed.

Crowley grabbed his wrist.

“Crowley…”

“No need, angel.” Crowley pulled him close and licked at the come drying on Aziraphale’s neck. “I’m happy to assist.”

No one had ever _cleaned_ Aziraphale before. No one had ever licked the come from his body, murmured to him how _good_ he tasted. They liked to watch him do that bit. Crowley didn’t hesitate. He lapped at Aziraphale’s neck and chest until there wasn’t a drop left.

Then he slid down and pressed his tongue between Aziraphale’s cheeks and _that_ — that was too much.

“Crowley!”

Crowley lifted his head, confused. “What?”

“You don’t intend to—”

“You wanted to clean yourself up. I said I’d do it, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but _there_—”

Crowley raised a brow. “...Don’t you want a taste?”

“I’ve tasted you many times.”

“Yes, but—” He bent low and licked and sucked at Aziraphale’s hole for a few seconds. Aziraphale’s entire body was statue-still. He watched Crowley come back up and realized what he needed to do just before he opened his mouth.

Crowley slipped his own come onto Aziraphale’s tongue with a moan. Aziraphale _took it._

“See?” Crowley looked _smug._

Aziraphale swatted at him. “You’re _insufferable._ I don’t know why I ever — _oh._ Oh, I _do_ like that,” he murmured, as Crowley went down for another pass.

* * *

Spring was ending. Every day it rained.

This didn’t stop Crowley from dragging Aziraphale outside at every opportunity. They spent the better part of their days on the beach or in the rose garden, kissing and talking, talking and kissing. Occasionally, they simply held hands.

The day before they were set to return to Virgil, Crowley asked, “Do you like it here?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I do. I’ve never been this close to the sea before, and the _roses_ you grow here, they don’t grow this way back home—”

“No,” Crowley said. They were sitting outside, enjoying lunch while the sun began to peak out from behind the storm clouds. He looked over at Aziraphale fondly. “I meant here, in the South. Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, no hesitations. “I do.”

“I’m glad.”

Aziraphale sipped his wine. “When I return home, I’ll be sure to tell everyone what I’ve seen.” Crowley opened his mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it. He busied himself with his own wine. “...We should probably make ready for me to leave, when we go back.”

“Of course,” Crowley said.

“My mother already knows. I wrote her months ago, when you first told me of your plans.”

“Wonderful.”

“I suppose when we get back, I can get my things together—”

“Let’s take the boat out one last time,” Crowley said, and stood. “Come on, we can talk about _packing_ later.”

Aziraphale hesitated, then took his hand. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “No sense in spoiling the day with planning_._”

Crowley grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

* * *

The ride back to Virgil was bumpy and quiet. Crowley slept most of the way, his head in Aziraphale’s lap for the last half. When they reached the castle, Aziraphale shook him awake and kissed his forehead.

“My dear.”

“Already?”

“Yes.”

Crowley groaned and sat up. A moment later the door to the carriage swung open and Aziraphale stepped out, helping Crowley down. He ran a hand through his hair. “I should meet with my advisors,” he muttered.

“So soon? I thought we might walk into town…”

Crowley shook his head. “No, I’ve gone days without talking to them, they’re bound to be worried.” He pressed a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. “Dinner,” he said, “in my rooms. I’ll have someone send for you.” He walked into the castle, traveling cloak billowing behind him. Aziraphale glanced up at the oncoming storm clouds and sighed. He needed to start packing.

By the time someone came to fetch him for dinner, Aziraphale had most of his clothes and books packed away. He was going to miss the little piano in Crowley’s room, the libraries that had started feeling like his. He would miss these halls, he thought, as he followed a servant toward Crowley’s rooms.

Aziraphale shut the door behind him and turned the lock. Crowley was back at his desk, falling into that familiar hunch. He waved Aziraphale over, but didn’t look up.

“Has it stopped raining?” he asked.

“Are you going to look at me when we speak?”

Crowley sighed, raising his head and rolling his neck. “I’m behind on my correspondence,” he said. “And we spent a week longer in the country than we should have.”

“Is that so?”

Crowley nodded. “The trade deal has been finalized. Things are going to start moving in the next few months, but there’s been trouble along the Western border. I might need to leave, soon.”

“I hope it gets resolved.”

“So do I,” Crowley said, and stood. “Join me outside?”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley pulled out his chair and then sat across from him. They sat in silence for some time, before Aziraphale finally said, “Have I upset you?”

“Hm?” Crowley wasn’t focused on him at all. He pulled the cork from the wine bottle and filled their glasses. “No,” he said, “I’ve just a lot on my mind. Going away makes things...difficult, back home.”

“Should you have stayed?”

“That hardly matters now,” Crowley said.

“Then why are you pretending I’m not here?”

Crowley paused. “...Perhaps I’m getting used to when you _won’t_ be.”

Aziraphale looked out over the balcony toward the sea. How _beautiful_ it was, how _powerful._ He would miss that, too. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be glad to have things back to normal.”

“_Normal_,” Crowley muttered. “Yes, I can hardly wait.”

“You certainly act like it.”

Crowley laughed. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale set down his glass. “Why are you antagonizing me?”

“I’m not.”

“You _are._ We had a perfectly wonderful time at the estate and now you’re behaving as though it were some...some _inconvenience._ Like you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

“I’m a king,” Crowley snapped, “I don’t have time to _enjoy_ myself. You can do as you’d like up North in your bloody Golden Court, but down here, we do the work ourselves. I shouldn’t have left,” he said, and drained his glass. “What was the point of it if you’re leaving anyway?”

“You’re the one _sending me away!_”

“Yes, because I’ve no use for frivolities! The North sends me some _gilded_ gift horse, expects me to roll of for him _and_ their negotiators, but what happened? Who rolled over for _whom_, Aziraphale? Who showed the North what they were made of and _which of us_—”

“Enough.” Aziraphale stood. “You’re being horrid. I’ve no desire to be with you when you’re like this.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Crowley snarled, following him back inside. “You come here, ready to do whatever pleases me, and that means you _know me?_”

“I thought we came to know one another _quite_ well, over the last few weeks.”

Crowley scowled. “I _fucked_ you,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I know you.”

Aziraphale felt _helpless._ He was confused, he was hurt, but more importantly, he was _furious._ “What would you have me _do_, Crowley? You’ve put me in a terrible position, I thought you and I were—”

“You can do as you please,” Crowley said, and walked away.

Aziraphale stood there, _aching._ He said, “The circumstances of my birth, of my _position_, specifically dictate that I cannot. I assumed it would be that way for the rest of my natural life, but with you...with you it felt different.”

Crowley looked at him. “I said you could—”

“Yes, I know what you _said._ But that’s hardly what you _mean._ You mean that I should go, and leave you alone. You mean I should turn around and not look back. You say, _do as you please_, but you must know when you say it, what I hear is, _I don’t really care._” Aziraphale stepped toward him. “And I don’t believe that for a second.”

Crowley looked stricken, but not for long. He pulled away from Aziraphale’s touch, turning with his back toward him. “Feel however you’d like about it,” he said. “I’ve no use for you. Not anymore.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “I never felt used by you,” he said softly, “but I won’t inconvenience you any longer, your Majesty.” He bowed, even though Crowley couldn’t see. “Goodnight,” he said, and left the room.

* * *

Madame Tracy told him the roads leading out of the capitol were flooded from the rain.

“Once they’re done with the clearing out,” she said, “we’ll get you on your way, love.”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale retreated back to the library closest to his room and pouted between the shelves. He hadn’t seen Crowley since their argument. He doubted they’d see one another again before Aziraphale left.

But the next morning there was a knock at his door. “The king would like to know if you’d join him for breakfast,” one of the servants asked.

“I would not,” Aziraphale said, and shut the door.

* * *

Two days after he had expected to leave, one of the stablehands came to him and told him the carriage he was set to take back to the North was damaged in the storm. Later that afternoon, someone told him one of the horses had fallen ill. And all the while, he was told the king wanted to dine with him. The king wanted to walk with him. The king only wanted to _speak _with him.

“No thank you,” was his constant response.

Or it was, until one evening he became so fed up with opening his door and telling someone _no_ or listening to some _other reason_ he couldn’t leave, that when he heard the knock he stormed over, flung the door open, and shouted, “_Tell your king to leave bloody well_—” He stopped. “Crowley.”

Crowley looked...well he looked _miserable_, if Aziraphale was being honest. It both delighted and destroyed him.

“May I come in?” Aziraphale nodded and stepped aside. “You’re still here,” Crowley said.

“Yes, through no fault of my own. The roads, the carriage, the horses. If it’s not one thing, it’s…” He trailed off. Crowley was looking very guilty. “Oh, you _must_ be joking,” he said.

“Hm?”

“How _could_ you? After everything you said, after the way you...you _treated_ me, the other night. You were absolutely—”

“Don’t say cruel,” Crowley said, turning to face him. “Call me whatever you’d like, but don’t say cruel.” Aziraphale nodded and watched Crowley walk out onto the balcony. He hesitated, for a moment, and then followed. They stood side by side, watching the sea. The days were growing longer. Summer was finally here.

“I thought you didn’t want me here.”

“I didn’t. You’re a distraction of the highest degree. You play music and you want to read poetry and socialize. When you’re around, I don’t get anything done. My advisors are furious. My schedule is in shambles. My correspondence is _piling_ up. You’ve made an absolute mess of my life.” Crowley looked at him. “And I’ve never been happier.”

“...Oh.”

“I’ve never been allowed to...to _want_,” Crowley said, “and when I’m with you, it’s all I do. I want to be with you, I want to listen to your voice, I want to do anything you’d like. I made plans for you to leave because I assumed you and I would simply...coexist. I liked you from the start, of course. Right away. But I thought if we simply didn’t touch, if we didn’t _tempt_—”

“That’s not an _excuse!_ You brokered that arrangement,” Aziraphale said, “and then you _broke _it. I’d have happily gone on not touching, doing as you wished—”

“But I didn’t wish that. Do you know how long it was, before you, that someone touched me last? That someone did so much as _hold my hand?_ You fell into my life and it was all I could do not to touch you.” He laughed. “No self control. My uncle always said it’d be my undoing.”

“And is that what I am?”

Crowley faced him. Reached out and cupped his cheek. “Anything but, actually.”

Aziraphale sighed. He leaned into Crowley’s touch. “You expect me to stay?”

“I wish you would.”

“After all that, after _everything_—”

In front of him, Crowley sunk to his knees. Aziraphale swallowed.

_Oh._

“I need you to stay,” Crowley said. “I don’t just want you, Aziraphale. I _need you_ by my side. Before you I was lonely and wretched, I’ll admit that. But I’m _getting better._ I’m alive, for the first time in so long. Please,” he begged, “_please._ Stay here. Stay with me.”

“...Crowley.”

“I can’t promise to always be good, to always be warm or careful. But I can promise to adore you. Everyday. So long as you’ll have me.”

Aziraphale wasn’t breathing. Crowley buried his face in the folds of Aziraphale’s shirt and breathed for them both.

“Stay,” Crowley pleaded. “_Stay._”

Aziraphale exhaled. He reached down and cradled Crowley’s face in his hands. “Promise I can love you.”

“I promise.”

“Promise I can cherish you.”

“Of course, angel, whatever you’d like.”

Aziraphale bent down, pressing their foreheads together. “Promise we may keep each other. For all our days.”

“All our days and _more_,” Crowley said. He was well and truly broken, now.

They both were.

Aziraphale kissed him. Crowley rose to his feet and crowded Aziraphale against the railing, hands in his hair. He kissed back, he murmured his name, and he held him as Aziraphale went boneless and gasped into the night.


	2. summer, and the igniting of passions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. all they do in this chapter is fight and fuck. warnings are in the tags, but there's discussion of emotional/psychological abuse in this chapter. also you're getting four chapters now.

Crowley had no sooner asked Aziraphale stay with him than he was leaving, to settle a border dispute closer to the West.

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” he promised, kissing Aziraphale’s forehead, “and we’ll start things properly.”

“Please be careful,” Aziraphale said, and watched him climb into the carriage. It was a dot on the horizon before he finally turned and went inside.

The castle was his home now. He’d written to his mother the day before — _The request could be made more formally, and I have no idea what the intention was in sending me here in the first place, but I will be remaining in the south for the foreseeable future. Make no mistake, mother, I’m more than pleased._ — and expected her response by the time Crowley returned. He expected that she'd be pleased, and looked forward to knowing what his siblings thought. Gabriel especially.

They’d all been brought up in quite the same way, some with greater expectations than others. As the youngest, Aziraphale was less restricted in things he could do, what he got away with. He’d hardly been _babied_ — there were still expectations to manage — but he was, on occasion, forgotten.

Here, he was anything but. When he told the Youngs he would be staying in the south for some time, they were ecstatic, and he left their shop laden down with more books than he could really manage, nearly tumbling with the lot of them into the street. He was saved, surprisingly, by young Newt.

“Careful there, sir.”

“Oh! Oh, _thank you, _dear boy.” Aziraphale shifted his packages under his other arm, and gave Newt a warm handshake. “It’s good to see you again. On your way to Miss Anathema’s?”

Newt went pink, but they both pretended it was the heat of the day. “I, ah. I had considered it. Yes.”

“Splendid! I’ll walk you there.”

Newt did not seem thrilled to have an escort, but he was amicable enough along the way. Aziraphale had no intention of getting in the way of his pursuits, but he _did_ need something to help him sleep. Crowley had neglected to mention how humid the south became in the summer, and Aziraphale was having a terrible time falling asleep. He felt like he was drowning.

Anathema was a lovely girl, descended from a long line of herbalists and part-time occultists. She did tea leaf and palm readings on the side, sold crystals and quartz wands to the occasional interested party, and frequently read tarot cards and runes. Aziraphale had never asked for his fortune to be told — he wasn’t sure if he could handle it, mumbo jumbo or otherwise.

“Good afternoon my dear,” Aziraphale said, and sat his books on the counter. “I’ve come with a very specific request.”

Anathema smiled. “Whatever you need, sir.” She was, of course, listening as Aziraphale explained his problem, but her gaze flitted past his shoulder to Newt every few seconds. Before they’d left for the country, Newt’s advances hardly seemed reciprocated. He wasn’t _pushy_, but Anathema did not seem _interested._

It appeared things had changed between more people than just himself and Crowley.

“This should do the trick,” she said, mixing up a few extracts and some herbs in a bottle. “In your tea, just before bed. Three drops should do.”

“Ah, thank you. It’s much appreciated.”

“You’ll adjust,” she added, taking his coin. “It’s hard on newcomers.”

“I suspected as much. His Majesty neglected to inform me.”

Anathema laughed. “Not to worry. If you need more, just let me know.” She turned toward Newt. “Did you need something?”

“Hm? Oh, I um. Well, I _was_ wondering…” He trailed off, looking at Aziraphale pleadingly.

Aziraphale knew that look. Knew the _please can’t you leave us alone _look _quite_ well.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I’ve forgotten myself. Enjoy the day!” he called over his shoulder, and rushed out of the shop. The young man who accompanied him from the castle relieved him of a few of the parcels.

The middle of June wasn’t _exactly_ the quintessential time for love, but Aziraphale figured — better late than never.

* * *

The castle’s staff had seemed to like Aziraphale from the start. Now that his residence was permanent, they made more of an effort. Aziraphale had enjoyed dining with them when Crowley had been gone during his first two weeks in the south, and so he was happy to do it again. They were a jovial group, quite pleased with the calm of the castle, and their king’s relatively calm demeanor.

“Can be a bit like his uncle sometimes,” the chef said, “when he gets angry.”

“I haven’t seen him _too_ upset,” Aziraphale said. “Was King Lucius very short tempered, then?”

“Oh, yes.” The chef, an older woman called Franny, nodded. “Quite the fuse on that one. Most usually directed toward his young ward, of course.” Franny was one of only a few staff members who’d been around when the former king had ruled. “Even if someone else caused his foul mood, he took it out on the boy.”

“Did he…” Aziraphale made a swatting motion.

Franny tutted. “_No_, he never did. Not that I saw, anyway. And I saw a great deal. Used to let the prince peel potatoes, in that chair you’re sat in. Lucius would leave him alone here for days at a time. Feast or famine, with that man. Either breathin’ down your neck, or pretending you didn’t exist.” She shook her head. “No, we’re all better off now he’s gone. King Crowley especially.” She glanced at him. “You’ll, ah. You’ll keep that to yourself then, won’t you sir?”

“Of course.”

“King’s a good man, better than his uncle by leaps and bounds, y’know. But I don’t think he’d appreciate me airin’ his laundry.” She laughed. “You’ve just got that sorta face, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded. He’d been brought up specifically to have a face like that. Nobles had secrets. Aziraphale had been fond of collecting them.

He excused himself — he’d come to the kitchen at the chef’s request to tell her his favorite meal (shepherd's pie with potatoes as thick as you could cut them) — and wound up more than a _bit_ distracted. Aziraphale went upstairs to his room, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat on the balcony with a good book. He turned his gaze occasionally to the spot on the horizon where Crowley’s carriage would reappear.

Crowley had only left a few days ago, and would be gone for a week and a half at _least_, but Aziraphale longed for him. Love, he’d decided, was a terrible state to be in. Not because there was no benefit — they’d kissed and laid in bed and drawn pleasure out from one another for hours and hours after Crowley’s confession on the balcony — but to be _alone_ and in love?

Horrid. Aziraphale detested every second.

But the anticipation for days to come made things bearable. He found it difficult to mope for very long when he considered what Crowley had promised him — freedom to go where he liked, to give advice on certain matters, to entertain who he wanted. There were so many promising writers Aziraphale wanted Crowley to meet, and not just from the south. There were scientists and philosophers, too, people who were creating and thinking fantastic things. Crowley had isolated himself from _people_ for so long, Aziraphale was giddy with excitement at the thought of his _reintroduction_ to the world as a whole.

It’d have to be slow, of course. Crowley detested being forced or pushed into anything. And after talking with the chef, Aziraphale understood a bit more _why._ It was impossible for him to comprehend such cruelty. Aziraphale had been born, despite the annoyances and grumbling of his siblings, into a loving home, and an adoring world. Never once had his _mother _forgotten him. Never once did she take her anger with others out on _him._

He’d have to talk to Crowley about this eventually. Without him knowing what Aziraphale had already heard. But that could wait. Oh, like _so_ many unpleasant things — it could certainly wait.

* * *

“Back again?” Anathema asked. She was coming out from the back of the shop, fixing her skirts. “Did, um. Did the tonic not work?”

“Oh, on the contrary, actually. It worked like a charm. No, I had wanted to ask about—” Aziraphale stopped. From the back room, Newt tumbled, trying to right his trousers.

When he looked to Anathema, she was only a shade lighter than the ground hibiscus she kept in stock.

“...I’ll come back tomorrow,” Aziraphale said, as pleasantly as he could. He winked. “Let you get back to business, then.”

Anathema buried her face in her hands. Aziraphale turned the shop’s signed to _Closed_ on his way out.

By now, he was well known. People liked Crowley, and so by extension, they seemed to like Aziraphale. There were a few distrustful looks tossed his way when he’d first arrived, but as news of the trade deal’s completion spread, people grew friendlier. Crowley and his advisors had negotiated a good deal. Once things were completely finalized, new goods would start flowing into the south. _That_ was the most exciting thing being discussed in the market.

Aziraphale wandered from stall to stall, listening to the gossip, trading coin for some fruit here and there. Peaches were starting to pop up, and he made a point to buy several and bring them back to the chef. He enjoyed a good peach cobbler, whenever he could.

Aziraphale passed the two weeks without Crowley in a sort of haze. He was in love, and he was finally able to call a place his _own._

It was only fitting that Crowley returned in the state he did.

* * *

The first thing that needed to go was the fever. Anathema and Crowley’s personal physician bickered over the right herbs to use to do the job, while Crowley lay rather catotonic in bed. Aziraphale kept him cool with a wet rag to his forehead while his doctor tried to argue the merits of bleeding.

“That’s _ridiculous_,” Anathema said. “We’ve been through with bleeding for years, you won’t drag ancient medicine in here to treat the _king._”

“Then _you_ explain to me what’s wrong!”

“It’s a fever, plain and simple. It hasn’t stopped raining in the west for _weeks_ now, everyone knows that. He needs rest and water and something to ease his aches.”

“If he dies—”

“Fine!” she said, throwing her hands in the air, “let it be on my head! But you won’t be doing any _bloodletting_ in this room, do you understand me?”

People listened to Anathema. The doctor turned and left.

“_Bleeding_,” she muttered, going back to mashing her herbs. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“_Will_ he be alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“In time. It sounds worse than it is, but he’s not _young_. He’ll need to rest. I’m not sure this is the best place for it. The city is dusty in the summer, muddy when it rains.”

Aziraphale nodded. “We’ll think of something.”

Anathema wafted some of the herbs she was burning toward the bed. “I’ll be back in the morning. Don’t let him get up,” she said.

Aziraphale watched her, then turned back to Crowley. He was asleep, likely wouldn’t be up for some time, but Aziraphale wasn’t ready to leave him. He stood and went to one of the shelves where he kept the books Crowley liked to have read aloud, and pulled down some poems.

“I’ll just settle in, my dear,” he said quietly, and kissed Crowley’s forehead. It was red-hot under Aziraphale’s lips. “Poor thing.” He sighed, sat in the chair by the bed, and began to read.

* * *

Crowley slept for three days. He would occasionally pitch in his sleep, or mumble something unintelligible, but for the most part, he was very still. Anathema came by to make sure he drank water, helping Aziraphale tip his head back and pour it down his throat. She came with new herbs, or new incense, anything to ease Crowley’s aches and calm the terrible wheeze that had started up when he breathed.

“I don’t know much of it,” she said one morning, “but there’s a palace further south. Air’s cleaner, none of this dust kicked up by the horses. Terrible for the lungs,” she added.

“I’ll ask Madame Tracy about it.”

“Probably be good for him to get away. I know you just came back, but I don’t think this is exactly a _reprieve_ for him.” She sighed, planting a hand on either hip. “Right. I’ve done most of what I can. Send for me if he gets worse, and let me know anyway if he seems better.”

“I certainly will.” Aziraphale smiled as she gathered her things. “And how is our friend Newt?”

Anathema stilled. “...Fine,” she said.

“He’s very handsome.”

“He’s alright.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll be leaving, sir,” she said, and rushed out of the room.

In bed, Crowley groaned, but he didn’t wake for a few more hours. By that time Aziraphale was eating dinner alone on the balcony, reading a book and slowly finishing off a piece of fish. He heard coughing and a bit of muttering and rose to find Crowley trying to kick off his sheets in a desperate attempt to get out of bed.

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said, and ushered him back against the pillows. “Anathema said—”

“Oh good,” Crowley murmured, “so it _was _her voice I heard.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. She stopped your physician from bleeding you.”

Crowley scowled. “Hate that,” he said. “M’uncle used to have them do it to me, when I was sick.” He coughed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m _starving._”

“Broth,” Aziraphale said. “Anathema says bone broth until you can sit up for at least an hour.”

“I can sit up just _fine_, angel.” To prove his point, he pushed himself up, and immediately toppled over. “_Damn._”

“You’re _sick_, Crowley.”

“A king is never _sick._ He is simply inconvenienced by the inability to be healthy.”

“_That’s_ stupid.”

Crowley glanced at him, then leaned back against his pillows. “Fine,” he said. “Bone broth it is.”

* * *

It was a few days after Crowley woke that Aziraphale suggested going away.

“We’ve only just gotten back,” Crowley said. He had graduated to bread, which he tore vigorously and dipped into his broth.

“Anathema is concerned about the dust.”

“Ah. The _dust._” Crowley sighed. “Well we could go a bit further south. The Grove is certainly an option.”

“And what is the grove?” Aziraphale asked, taking the tray when Crowley was finished.

“Small palace, big lemon grove. Got the biggest lemon tree in the south, actually. Stands on a hill, overlooks the ocean. Lovely spot for a picnic,” he added, smiling.

Aziraphale nodded. “I do love a picnic.”

“I know you do. And, if Anathema is concerned for the dust, there’s a distinct lack of it there. Well, inside there might be. No one works at the Grove when it isn’t being used. Call for Madame Tracy, and bring my writing materials. I’ll have a courier deliver something to the mayor of the town nearby. We can get it staffed and leave next week.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I—” Everything happened so _fast_ here. He’d gotten used to it to _some_ extent before now, but Crowley was quite used to just making things happen. What a king wanted, a king received.

Well. For the most part. Aziraphale had slept apart from Crowley while he’d been very ill, so he wouldn’t catch anything himself. Now that Crowley seemed on the mend, Aziraphale gave in and shared his bed for the first time in weeks, but he pushed back when Crowley’s hand drifted suggestively to his side.

“You’re not well enough.”

“Just a _taste_—”

“No.”

Crowley scowled, and Aziraphale fully expected him to press the issue. It was the first time Aziraphale had refused him. Aziraphale had refused many men in the past, whether by necessity or some kind of game, and they had always fought him, always tried to weasel in and get it some other way.

“I suppose you’re right,” Crowley murmured, and ran his hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “It _is_ nice to lay with you, just like this. I’ve missed you.”

Aziraphale’s heart was stuttering in his chest. All this _affection_ came pouring from him, but had nowhere to go. He swallowed. “I missed you, too.”

“I’ll try walking in the morning. Have breakfast with you outside.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly, “I’d love that.” He watched Crowley drift off before taking a few calming breaths. He wasn’t sure his heart could take anymore of this without some kind of warning beforehand. But Crowley was unpredictable in that regard. One never knew if he was going to kiss or cut. It was impossible to tell if he was going to push Aziraphale away, or beg for him to be closer. He was affectionate, that was true, but the _outpouring_ of it. The intensity of it varied on a sliding scale. Aziraphale was having a difficult time adjusting.

He would simply have to make do.

In the morning, he had gotten little sleep, turning over the idea that he might, so soon, be so in love there was no way out, and his cock was growing stiff under the sheets.

Crowley woke, opened his eyes and gave Aziraphale a soft morning smile — and that was that. Aziraphale kissing him, harder than he should have, and asked, “May I touch myself for you?”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “You want to—”

“_Yes._”

“Oh for — of _course_, angel.” He shifted and pushed himself to recline further up against the pillows as Aziraphale began to quickly pull off his sleep clothes and revealed his stiffening cock. “_Fuck._”

“Couldn’t help myself this morning,” Aziraphale said and straddled Crowley’s waist. “You’ll stay there, though. You understand?”

“I do.”

“Good.” Aziraphale let his head fall back as he wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking slowly and carefully. He had nothing to slick his cock with, so he thoroughly wetted the palm of his other hand and traded off. Crowley was stone-still beneath him, eyes watching every motion, chest rising and falling a bit quicker every second. Aziraphale ran a thumb over the head of his own cock and gasped, moving faster now. He had touched himself once while Crowley was away, and it was nothing compared to this. His lover’s gaze tracking every movement, every change in pace. Aziraphale began to moan, rolling his hips, careful not the agitate Crowley’s own cock.

“Very good,” Crowley said, “_very_ good. Look at how gorgeous you are, showing off for me like this.”

“You like it?”

“Of _course_ I like it. I like everything you do. And I’ve missed seeing you like this. Missed your lovely cock, little angel.” He reached out and stroked Aziraphale’s arm, bringing his free hand up and kissing the knuckles. “When I’m well, I’d like to do this with you.”

“_Oh!_ Oh, _Crowley_—”

“There, there. Don’t rush now.”

“But I _need_—”

“Didn’t you come at all, while I was away?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Only once.”

“_Once?_ No wonder you’re so excited. No wonder you could hardly wait for me to wake up. You’ve been _denying_ yourself. Not punishing yourself, are you?” Aziraphale gasped and fucked his own fist even faster. He wanted to reach behind himself, show Crowley how he could stretch himself open, but there was nothing there for that, and he was already so close.

“I’m—”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Crowley said, _lazily_, tracing the curve of Aziraphale’s thigh and knee. “In fact, don’t.”

“_What?_”

“Don’t come,” Crowley said. “Not until I say.”

Aziraphale choked back a cry, slowing his hand and squeezing the base of his cock. He wanted him to wait _now?_ He was so close, so _close_ —

“You’ll come when I tell you,” Crowley said, not bothering to move or help in any way whatsoever. He did look the perfect picture of a king like this, sprawled against his pillows, red curls splayed out behind his head, looking _smug._ “And not a second before.”

“Of course, _yes._”

“Good. _Good_ angel.” Crowley sighed and put one hand behind his head, the other still teasing Aziraphale’s knee, tickling him there just _so._ “When we’re further south, we can have each other however we want,” he murmured. “I’d like to fuck you outside, I think. Under the lemon tree. It’s so _big_, angel. Absolutely enormous thing that overlooks the sea. I’ll take you there, lay you out at night and make you _scream_ my name. Would you like that?”

“I would, oh, _fuck_—”

“And I know how much you love roses, I know how you adore them. I’ll let you ride me, away from the palace, let you have me in the garden. Won’t that be nice? Won’t that be such a _treat?_”

Aziraphale was no longer capable of answering. He moaned and his hips jerked forward. He desperately needed to come, and when he looked in Crowley’s eyes he saw something _feral_ there, something that seemed to fully realize the enormity of the gift he’d been given.

Aziraphale would do anything for him. Anything in the world he asked. And he’d do it with love.

Crowley swallowed, a man holding something great and terrible in his grasp. “_Come_,” he whispered, _pleaded_. And Aziraphale did. It hit his chest and neck and he cried out, gasping as the effort of holding back was suddenly released. They stayed that way for several seconds, before Crowley said, “Come here,” and Aziraphale went.

The _king_ licked and wiped the come from Aziraphale’s chest until there wasn’t a drop of it left. He smeared the last bit on Aziraphale’s lips and said, “Good morning.”

Aziraphale laughed, darting his tongue out to taste. “Good morning, my dear.”

“Oh, you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” Crowley asked, and they kissed, well and truly kissed.

Aziraphale drew back. “And leave myself with no one to entertain? Where’d be the fun in that?”

Crowley sighed. “I hope I’m a bit more than just someone you’d like to stroke your cock for each morning.”

“My dear,” Aziraphral said, and kissed him again, “you know that you are.”

* * *

The Grove was three hours south of the castle and, like the Spring Palace, sat on the sea. Aziraphale was eager to get down to the beach — he could see people working and asked what they were doing.

“Farming oysters,” Crowley said, as Aziraphale helped him down. “Do you like oysters?”

“I adore them.”

“Never had one.”

Aziraphale nearly choked. “_Never?_ My dear, you are a nation by the _sea_. How could you not have had _oysters?_”

“I did _try_ once, as a boy. They’re so slimy, can’t stand them.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You’ll try them again,” he said, in a tone that did not invite argument. Crowley raised a brow. _So you liked that_, Aziraphale thought, and led him inside.

Madame Tracy had arranged with the neighboring town to have some of them fill in as staff. A young woman greeted them inside, introduced herself as Elizabeth, and reminded them that lunch would be served in the rose garden.

“How _nice_,” Aziraphale said. “Will the stairs be too much?”

Crowley waved him off. “I am not _decrepit_,” he snarled. “I don’t need your assistance constantly.” He’d grown very grumpy being confined to his bed. Aziraphale had been trying to remain as hands off as possible, but stairs were still an issue.

The other problem was Crowley was a _king._ And a prideful one. He did things on his own, as he’d always done. It’d been some years since he’d been struck down with illness, so he wasn’t used to being held back. Aziraphale did as he was asked, and let him walk up the stairs alone.

“Are my rooms close by?” he asked, once Crowley had climbed his way to the top.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your room is my room.”

Aziraphale glanced at him. “No propriety at all then?”

Crowley scowled. “There are _five_ people on staff here. I will not be _appropriate_ for their sake. Would you rather we sleep separately?”

“Not at all. I was only looking out for you.”

“Well _don’t_,” Crowley said, and went ahead into their room.

Aziraphale sighed and followed after him.

It was a _gorgeous_ place. Crowley had been right when he said it outdid the Spring Palace by leaps and bounds. The air was tinged with salt and lemon, and you could see the grove from their balcony. Aziraphale leaned against the railing and watched the men on the beach continue bringing in fish and oysters.

“I’m sorry for being cross with you,” Crowley said quietly. Aziraphale turned and reached out a hand for him to take. “I hate being sick.”

“I can tell.”

“I’ll feel better here. This is my favorite place, always has been.”

“Really?”

Crowley nodded. “My uncle used to send me here when I was bothering him, or when he needed me out from underfoot. Negotiations, things like that. I’d come here with a servant, maybe a tutor, and wander around until he sent for me again. Sometimes it was summer and I helped pick lemons. Other times it was winter and I convinced someone to take me sledding.” He turned Aziraphale back toward the ocean and stood behind him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. “I’m very happy to be here with _you._” He kissed his neck.

Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Of course, angel. Anything for you.”

Aziraphale sighed. He believed that, honestly. He really did.

* * *

The first night at the palace they slept right through til late morning, exhausted from travel. Crowley had breakfast and then went to lay back down, but Aziraphale wanted to explore. He bathed and dressed, kissing Crowley’s temple before going downstairs and inspecting the place.

It was _immaculate._ They had cleaned it top to bottom before their arrival, and it showed. The staff was minimal, but efficient. Aziraphale found the libraries to be in good shape, and took a few books outside into the garden to read. When he was done, he walked through the roses and met Evelyn, the gardener. She’d been brought in from the neighboring village like everyone else, but had long since tended the flowers here. She showed Aziraphale which types grew best, and helped him pick a dozen, pruning the thorns so he could carry them back upstairs.

Crowley was sitting up in bed, looking over some letters that had been delivered to him, his hair mussed and tunic out of place.

“Did you just wake up?”

“Hm.”

“Look, I’ve picked some roses. I didn’t know—”

“Your king wants me to come north.”

Aziraphale froze. “...Does he?”

“Yes. Says it’s important to promote unity between our kingdoms. Insists I travel there in the fall to sign _their_ official version of the trade deal.”

Aziraphale went to the bed and pried the letter from Crowley’s fingers. “_His royal highness King Abraham does request the presence of one King Anthony J. Crowley_…Well, it’s official and everything.”

Crowley sighed. “Throw it away, please.”

“...What?”

“I won’t be going, just throw it away. I’ll write to him when summer’s over, explain I have no interest.”

“Crowley, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am. I won’t be traveling north to sign some frilly document. The deal is set and goods are moving. There’s no need for ridiculous _ceremony._”

Aziraphale sighed. “The north is very much _about_ ceremony.”

“Yes, I gathered that when they sent you.”

“Wha— what does _that_ mean?”

Crowley raised a brow. “Oh, come now, angel. It’s not meant to be an insult against _you_. But they could have sent any _number_ of things to me. A herd of cattle, to tease the beef trade. The eastern queen once sent my uncle a _sword_. Gathered dust, of course, but it’s the principle of the matter. The north could have sent anything in the world to me, and they chose _you._ And now look. You’ve practically gone native. You love it here. You helped _me_ get a better deal, and you haven’t succeeded in making me an _ounce_ more agreeable than I was when this whole thing started.

“You’re a bit of a flop, really.”

Aziraphale stared. There was nothing to argue about. Crowley was absolutely right.

“But you’re pretty,” Crowley said, going back to his letters. “You were a bauble in their court, and that’s what they thought I’d want. Something lovely to have hanging about while I got distracted and let them _fuck me_ on the salt trade.”

Aziraphale looked away.

“Did you enjoy yourself this morning?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” he said, and wished he _did_ have a room of his own. He desperately wanted to get away.

“I thought we might go sailing tomorrow. We have a boat here as well.”

“I’m sure I’d love it.”

“And dinner tonight, in the rose garden?”

“Of course. Whatever you’d like.” He stood. “I’m actually going for another walk,” he announced.

Crowley looked up. “Are you? Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale leaned in and kissed Crowley’s cheek. “Join me when you’ve finished, if you like.”

“...Certainly.” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s eyes on him as he walked out of the room.

He’d forgotten to put his roses in water.

The lemon tree on the hill wasn’t hard to spot. Aziraphale walked out of the palace and saw it right away. He climbed up to the top, bracing himself on the trunk of the tree, and looked out at the sea spread before him.

As always, he was struck by this country’s beauty. Nothing in the north compared to here, and Crowley was absolutely right — he was going completely native. The south felt more like home in just a few months than his years in the north ever had. He wondered how much that had to do with Crowley.

Aziraphale laid down in the grass, staring up at the sky between the branches, and watching them sway back and forth.

He hoped he didn’t get pummeled in the face by falling lemons.

He didn’t _sleep_, though. Too distracted by the things Crowley had said, the feelings that had been welling up inside him, the deep seated affection that was growing into something so akin to love it startled him. _Too soon_, he thought. He couldn’t make this mistake. If Crowley grew bored or angry with him, he could send Aziraphale back. The fear lingered in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, balcony confessions be damned.

After an hour, he heard someone coming up the hill, felt their steps as they stood by his head. Aziraphale opened one eye.

“You look comfortable,” Crowley said.

“It’s a very comfortable place.” He shifted so Crowley could sit next to him. “Did you finish with your letters?”

Crowley nodded. “I also realized something.”

“What’s that?”

“What I said to you, in the bedroom. It didn’t come out the way I intended it.”

“...Oh.”

Crowley looked down. “Aziraphale, when I called you...when I said you were a _bauble_, I hope you understand that’s not how I feel about you. That I don’t think you’re...just some _toy_ to be passed about. Something to entertain the masses.”

“You wouldn’t be far off the mark.”

“That’s just your _raising_ though, isn’t it? How you were brought up to feel?”

Aziraphale sat up. Brushed the grass from his back. “It’s what I was taught to understand about myself. Very specific purpose and all.”

Crowley sighed. “But that’s just it! You and I...we’re alike in that way. Raised to think one way about ourselves, but we grow up to become something different.”

“We were not raised the same.”

“Oh, certainly not,” Crowley said. “But...can you argue that expectations weren’t put upon you? That if you defied them you were punished? Weren’t you..._molded_, to some extent?”

Aziraphale considered this. “...Yes,” he said, “I suppose you’re right.”

Crowley looked out at the sea. “My uncle never hit me. He never laid a bloody hand on me, but he knew. Lord, he _knew_ how to keep me in line. When I was young, I defied him. I’d run off when he told me to come to him. I shouted at him, made a fool of him in his meetings. He would send me away and I would despise him even more. I wasn’t afraid. Eventually, though. Eventually I was.”

“...How?”

“Hm?”

“How did he do it?”

Crowley sighed. “I suppose it started with the dungeons. He’d take me down, let me see the people there. Then he’d have me make a decision. This one, does he live or die? And this one here, do we fine her or free her? What he hated was indecisiveness. If I freed them, or spared their lives, that didn’t matter to him. It’s doubtful my decisions carried any weight. But if I hesitated, he shouted me down. He berated me. He ground at me until I was _nothing._ Until I didn’t have a voice to shout at him. No will to argue. No desire to fight.”

“...Crowley.”

“I was horrid to you this morning. I insulted you. I sounded just like my uncle,” he spat, “and I hate myself for it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Can’t be helped. I’ve hated myself since I was very young.”

“Yes, but...don’t. Not on my account.” Aziraphale pulled him close, drawing him down and into his lap. “I wish I could go back and tell you how _loved_ you’d be someday. How much your people would adore you, and respect you. I wish I could go back and reassure you that there would be light in your life.”

“Oh, I doubt it’d have helped. I don’t know if I can really curse my uncle for what he did to me. In some ways, I should be glad.” He looked up and smiled. “I’d be very different, if he hadn’t been around. Wouldn’t be king, that’s for starters.” Crowley sighed. “And we’d never have met.”

Aziraphale scowled. “I am not going to thank your _uncle_ for what we have. That’s ridiculous.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to.” Crowley shifted so Aziraphale could play with his hair. “You know, I was trying to pay you compliment this morning.”

Aziraphale laughed. “_Were you?_”

“Oh, yes. I was trying to say that the north had sent you down here to drape yourself over me like a king’s plaything, and instead we both got the better deal. Well, I think so. I don’t know if you agree—”

Aziraphale kissed him. “I do,” he said, drawing back. “Of course I do.”

Crowley smiled, reaching up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. “You look gorgeous under a lemon tree, angel. Do you know that?”

“I think you need another nap, my love.”

“Will right here do?”

Aziraphale sighed and moved so he was leaning against the trunk of the tree. “Yes,” he said. “Right here will do just fine.”

* * *

Crowley looked down at his plate. He made a _terrible_ face.

“Oh, don’t act like a child,” Aziraphale said. “They’re oysters! They’re absolutely delicious.”

“They look like snot.”

“They don’t _taste_ like snot,” Aziraphale insisted, and picked one up to slide it into his mouth. Crowley made that face again. “I can’t eat with you acting this way. Either eat them or go hungry.”

“I’m considering starvation.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re _dreadful_ when you get like this, do you know that?”

“Like _what?_”

“Like a _king!_”

“I _am_ a king!” Crowley insisted. “And as the king, I don’t think I should eat things that look like they should have stayed exactly where they were found.” He pushed his plate away. Aziraphale took his oysters.

“Fine. Eat bread.”

“I _will._”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, and tried not to laugh. He watched the king of the south sullenly chew on a baguette until every oyster at the table was gone.

* * *

Crowley was very insistent they pack a lunch and walk up the hill to picnic under the lemon tree.

“I did it all the time when I was young,” he said, clutching Aziraphale’s hand as they walked together. “Usually by myself. I had a tutor, for a while. His name was Raphael. From the north, actually.”

“Was he?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes.” He laid the blanked out by the trunk of the tree and sat. Aziraphale set the basket of food down and knelt next to him. “I enjoyed him a lot, truthfully. He’d take me up here and we’d learn about the different cloud types. Can’t remember any of them now, of course. He was a better math tutor than anything else. Detested poetry.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Very. Well, I couldn’t claim to be a fan either. Not until I was older. And of course, with you around, a man may as well walk into the sea before he admits to not enjoying poetry.”

Aziraphale raised a brow. “Your melodrama is showing, my dear.”

Crowley laughed and helped unpack their lunch. “Would I be much of a king if it didn’t?”

After they’d eaten, Aziraphale leaned against the trunk of the tree and motioned for Crowley to lay against him. Aziraphale had brought a book with him, and he read quietly as Crowley looked down the hill to where the fishermen were casting their nets. After a while he seemed to fall asleep, but Aziraphale kept reading until Crowley stirred beside him. He reached up, took the book from Aziraphale’s hands, and pulled him into a kiss.

It was long and inviting. Aziraphale chased the taste of olives and red wine, sliding his fingers into Crowley’s hair and tugging gently.

“Divine,” Crowley murmured.

“Indeed.”

He closed his eyes. “Will you touch me?” he asked. “I haven’t come by your hand in _weeks_, you realize that?”

“I had,” Aziraphale said, and reached down to undo the laces of Crowley’s breeches. They were far enough away no one would see them, but there were still people on the beach in Aziraphale’s line of sight. His pulse thrummed with excitement. Crowley was leaning against him completely, their mouths the perfect distance. Aziraphale kissed him again as he reached down and freed Crowley’s cock from his pants and gave it a gentle stroke.

“Like this?” he asked.

“_Oh_, that’s perfect.”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale murmured. “It _has _been weeks since I’ve touched you. I can hardly believe it.” He sighed happily, teasing the tip with his thumb, fingers dipping down to cup Crowley’s sac. He moaned, thrusting into Aziraphale’s hand, trying to get _more._

“_Aziraphale._”

“Hm?”

“Don’t tease,” Crowley said, panting. “I’ve been good, I’ve waited.”

“Yes you have. I know you hated to do it. I hated to watch you like that, so sick you could barely move, but now look at you. Hungry for me, aren’t you?” Crowley nodded. “Be good for me now, and you can taste my cock later, my love. Hm? Would that make you happy?”

“Oh, _yes_, yes it would. I — _ah!_” He thrust up, crying out and throwing his head back as Aziraphale squeezed his cock. “More, just like that, make me come—”

“Say my name.”

“_Aziraphale!_”

“Say it again.”

“_Aziraphale, Aziraphale_—”

“Mmm, good. Very good.” Aziraphale began to stroke faster, picking up the pace every few seconds, until he was fucking Crowley’s cock with his own fist, and Crowley was thrusting madly into his grip. He said Aziraphale’s name over and over, a mantra, a plea, a song of adoration until there was nothing left to do but —

“Come,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley cried out, hips jerking up as he came. Aziraphale pulled up his tunic and watched it spread along his chest, marveling at how much of him there was. With a soft noise of his own, he reached down and wiped it clean with his fingers, licking Crowley’s seed from his hand. He sighed. “Very good, love. So _very_ good.”

Crowley was breathing heavy. Aziraphale smoothed his hair back, fixed his breeches, and kissed his temple.

“Angel…”

“I hope that’s what you wanted.”

Crowley nodded. “Very much.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’m glad. I think you could have me soon, don’t you?”

“You know…” Crowley looked up, brushed his knuckles under Aziraphale’s chin. “I’d be very glad if you’d have _me_,” he said.

Aziraphale’s face warmed. “Oh?”

“Yes. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

_You have no idea_, he thought, and nodded. “If that’s what you want from me, my dear.”

Crowley nodded. “It is.”

“Then of course.” Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. “Of course I will.” He leaned his head back against the tree and tried not to let the fantasy get away from him.

* * *

The sailing here was far better than it had been at the Spring Palace. Here, the water was warm, and Aziraphale felt freer than before. When he and Crowley sailed to an isolated spot off the coast and Crowley began to undress, Aziraphale followed after him, no hesitation. He wasn’t an especially good swimmer, but he could tread water, and he liked the part _after_ the most, where they laid out on the boat to dry. Crowley touched and kissed him, and finally after so many weeks, slid down between Aziraphale’s legs and sucked Aziraphale’s cock. It was beyond perfect, far grander of a love affair than Aziraphale could have _ever_ imagined for himself. He came with a soft cry, the waves splashing against the side of the boat, salt water cooling on his skin.

Crowley looked up, wiped come from the corner of his mouth, and smiled. “You always taste like _exactly_ what I want.”

“Oh, _Crowley._”

“Too much?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, “just enough.”

They went for one last swim, dried in the sun, and dressed before sailing back to shore. On their way to the palace, Crowley’s reached for Aziraphale’s hand. “Through the lemon grove?” he asked, and Aziraphale nodded. They veered away from the palace and fell into step as they walked between the trees. “I have a good feeling,” Crowley said, “about this summer.”

“Do you?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes. Next week, someone’s going to come here. Someone important. Now that you’re in my life for good, you need to meet them.”

Aziraphale raised a brow. “And who is this all-important person?” He breezed past the _for good_ bit. It was better if he didn’t constantly remind himself.

“You’ll see,” Crowley said. “I don’t know how much you’ll approve, and I’d rather not argue about it. Not now, anyway.”

Aziraphale laughed. “You assume we’ll _bicker_, so you’re not going to tell me who they are?”

“Look! We’re bickering right now!”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale stopped walking and pulled Crowley in, holding his face in his hands and kissing him. “I _adore_ you. How, after so few months, do you already know me so _well?_”

Crowley closed his eyes. “I was meant to know you,” he said, sure as anything. “I was always meant to know you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, “yes I like that idea.”

Crowley drew back. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m not.”

“Then we’ll go to bed,” he said.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Of course.” He took Crowley’s hand and let himself be pulled back to the castle. Crowley told Elizabeth they wouldn’t be needing dinner, and she went to pass along the message. By the time they were behind their bedroom door, Crowley’s mouth was already on Aziraphale’s neck, and he was loosening the belt of his tunic while Aziraphale fumbled with the laces of Crowley’s breeches.

“So _bloody_ difficult—”

Crowley laughed. “Easy, _easy_.”

“You drive me mad,” Aziraphale muttered, “do you know that? Looking at me the way you did down there, then dragging me up the stairs only to tell me to _take it easy._ I ought to leave you like this,” he said, and reached into Crowley’s pants to grasp his cock. “Half hard,” he said, as Crowley groaned, “and _begging_ for it.”

“Oh, _Aziraphale_.”

“God, you _know_ I love hearing that.”

Crowley nodded, smearing their lips together in a half-hearted attempted. They moved toward the bed, Aziraphale tugging off his shirt and tossing it behind him. He pulled Crowley’s hands to his chest, let him feel the racing of his heart.

“That’s what you do to me,” he said.

“And this?” Crowley asked, one knee gently pressing against Aziraphale’s stiffening cock.

Aziraphale moaned. “_Yes._”

“I want you to fuck me,” Crowley gasped. “Oh, promise you will. Say you _will_—”

“I’ll fuck you,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll fuck you until you scream my name, until you can’t even think of anything except for me.”

“Yes, _yes_—”

“On the bed,” Aziraphale said. “Finish undressing.”

Crowley complied, crawling backwards onto the bed and kicking off his boots and pants, shirt long gone. Aziraphale finished undressing and went over to the tray of oils they’d been keeping by the bed. He picked one and opened it, inhaling the scent of rosemary. “Lay back,” he said, and watched Crowley recline against the pillows. “Very good.”

Crowley kept his eyes constantly on Aziraphale, watching as he settled down between Crowley’s knees, as he held the bottle in one hand and began teasing him with the other. A touch to his ankle, then the bend of one knee, the divot of his hips. Aziraphale licked the pad of his thumb and drug it over the length of Crowley cock, feeling smug when he jerked and cried out in response.

“So _ready_, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Aziraphale, _I am_.”

“I know, and I’ll give you what you want.” Aziraphale wasn’t so consistently chatty, but with Crowley, he always wanted to be talking, always wanted to hear him. To reassure and _be_ reassured. Yes, I want this. Yes, this is where you should touch me. Yes, I want you to fuck me. Aziraphale sighed, slicking his finger and leaning down, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s stomach.

“Tell me what feels good,” he said, and began to circle his hole.

Crowley jerked. Aziraphale eased back. After a few seconds, he began to work at him again, teasing with the tip of his finger until Crowley seemed ready to take it. It’d probably been a long time since anyone had done this to him. Aziraphale would need to be careful.

“Like this?” he asked, and Crowley nodded. “Beautiful.”

Aziraphale eased his finger inside, going deeper every few thrusts, until he could fit his entire finger in, every time. Crowley looked _desperate_, so Aziraphale said, “I’ll add another, if that’s alright.”

“Anything you want. _Anything._”

“You’ll tell me what you don’t like?”

“I promise, _oh_, just do that again—”

Aziraphae hummed. “Of course.” He got his second finger slick with oil, and began teasing again. Crowley had been tense the first few passes, but now he was relaxing, easing into the motion and enjoying it. Aziraphale slowly added a third after a few moments, and began to slowly fuck Crowley open on his fingers, stretching him wider. He felt his finger pass that bundle of nerves deep inside Crowley and Crowley yelped in response.

“Good?”

“_Again_—”

Aziraphale kept going, occasionally massaging that spot and driving Crowley _mad_ with it. Eventually they were both panting. Aziraphale was rutting against the bed, he was so desperate to be inside him, and Crowley’s hips jerked up again and again, looking for friction.

“Please,” he said, “please, angel. I want you inside me. I _need_ you inside me.”

Aziraphale was fucking Crowley with his fingers. He pulled out, got his cock slick with oil, and put the bottle away. It felt _divine_, stroking his cock in time with Crowley’s breath, watching him undulating on the bed, absolutely desperate for it.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, just _do it_ already—” Crowley cut himself off with a moan, as Aziraphale breached him with the tip of his cock. It was different than fingers, he knew that, and Crowley must have known that, but you weren’t always prepared for the feel of it, the _heat_ of it.

Aziraphale hadn’t been inside someone for so long, even _he_ had almost forgotten what it felt like. Everything was good and _tight_, but nearly _too_ tight, like he was being pressed down upon.

“My love, _relax. _I’ll take such good care of you, I promise.”

Crowley nodded, and let Aziraphale bend one of his knees so he could adjust the angle of his next thrust. He slid in deeper, now, making shallow movements to help Crowley get used to the feeling.

“Stay with me,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

“I feel you, I _feel_ you—”

“Is it good?”

“Oh, it’s good, angel. Of course it’s good, you’re _always _good.” He sighed and as he did, Aziraphale sunk in a little deeper.

It was a lot. For them both, obviously. Aziraphale began to thrust in earnest, watching as Crowley took more and more of him, and as it became easier each time. Eventually, he pulled out and thrust completely in, and by then he was fucking him properly. They rolled their hips practically in time with one another, and that satisfying feeling of skin on skin rocked through Aziraphale like an electric shock. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the scent of sex and rosemary and sea spray from the open balcony door was all _intoxicating._ Aziraphale didn’t know if he’d be the same person after tonight.

This was so important, he realized. Crowley was trusting him with _so much_. He had to make this perfect, he had to make this _wonderful._

Aziraphale slowed his thrusts, becoming more careful about the _way_ he fucked Crowley, going harder and deeper sometimes, quick and shallow others. Crowley’s back arched off the bed as he tried to take Aziraphale the best he could. He wrapped his legs around his waist at one point, locking them together, and Aziraphale realized that was it. He was going to ride this out until they were both a complete mess in each others’ arms.

“_Aziraphale, Aziraphale_—”

He _loved_ hearing Crowley say his name like that. Like it was the only word in the world he knew. Aziraphale groaned and simply started to _take_.

“I—” Aziraphale pulled out, coming with a moan over Crowley’s stomach. “_Oh_…”

Crowley was still reeling, still rolling his hips. “Touch me, _please_.”

Aziraphale curled his fingers around Crowley’s cock and began stroking him, hard and fast. When Crowley seemed close, Aziraphale put his mouth on the tip of his cock and felt Crowley come across his tongue. He swallowed, feeling some dripping out. With a moan he pulled off, licking Crowley’s cock and his lips clean.

Crowley sighed, reaching out to card one hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “You made a mess of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and got up to get something to clean him with. “Force of habit. I don’t do this often, and most prefer—”

“I don’t need to hear about what other men prefer,” Crowley said. “Next time, you’ll come inside me.” He pulled Aziraphale in for a kiss. “Mm. There I am.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Of course, my dear. Whatever you desire.” He fell beside Crowley with a sigh, pulling him close and kissing his brow. “Did you like it?”

“I did. I’ll sleep well, angel.”

“I’m very glad,” Aziraphale said, and they drifted off together.

* * *

In the morning, Aziraphale rose and had tea brought up to the room. He dressed and made himself a cup while he waited for Crowley to get out of bed.

He joined him an hour later, bleary eyed and disheveled, wearing only a pair of trousers that left little to the imagination. Aziraphale was on him in a moment, sliding his hand down to wrap around Crowley’s cock and stroke.

“_Aziraphale_—”

“You were so beautiful for me last night, it’s all I’ve thought about this morning.”

“Oh, I’m glad. Touch me, make me—” He moaned and fell backwards onto the bed. Aziraphale shoved his breeches down and began fisting his cock while he kissed him.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale murmured, “tell me if I was better than your last. If I fucked you better than they did.”

Crowley gasped. “More, _more_—”

“Not until you answer me, my love. I need to know.”

“Competitive, are we?”

Aziraphale pulled back. “You are the best I have ever had,” he said. “I want to know if it’s the same for you.”

Crowley sighed, stretching. “What does it _matter_, angel? You were perfect last night, no one could compete, even if they tried.”

“_Tell. Me,_” Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley’s eyes met his, and in them, Aziraphale saw the truth.

He drew his hand back. “...There was no one else, before last night. Was there?”

Crowley sat up on his elbows. “I’m the _king_,” he said. “People don’t _fuck_ me. I fuck them.”

“Yes, but last night—”

“I wanted it to be you.”

“All these _years_, you’ve never…” Crowley shook his head. “Oh.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks redden. He suddenly felt very stupid. Everything he’d said last night, the _way_ he’d tried to make it good for Crowley...he should have been more careful. It should have been more..._loving._

“Aziraphale.” Crowley reached out and lifted his chin. “What you did for me last night was _perfect._ I had no idea it could be like that. I always thought...well I thought it would make me feel powerless. But you took such good care of me, you were so _wonderful_, I don’t know how I could have thought anything else.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Well. I’m very glad,” he said, and pushed himself off the bed.

“We aren’t _done_—”

Aziraphale looked back. Crowley’s breeches were around his knees, his cock flagging against his stomach. “Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Of course. You’re absolutely right.”

Crowley frowned. “No. Nevermind. It’ll stop.”

“But I started this—”

“And you’ve finished it,” Crowley said coolly, “quite well, too.”

“Why are you angry with me?”

“I’m not.” Crowley stood and fixed his pants, going to call for a bath. “What reason would I have to be?”

“This is _not _my fault, you asked me to...to do _that_ and I thought that you knew what you wanted! What if you’d hated it, what if I’d hurt you—”

“I’d have told you,” Crowley snapped. “I am not so _pathetically _in love with you as to let you have me however you please. Don’t _insult_ me.”

Aziraphale growled, searching for his clothes. “I am absolutely _tired_ of every conversation we have ending in this way. You behave as though you care for me, but as soon as I want to talk about something important, you pull away.”

“We’ve talked about things—”

“Yes, when it’s convenient for you. And only ever after you’ve insulted me, to my face. About my birth, my raising, my _past._ There’s nothing I can change about all that. I can’t go back and undo the things I’ve done or unknow the men I knew. If you are _jealous_ of people who came before you, I don’t know how to help you. And if you are angry with me because of what I was, then I can’t help with that either. But last night you...you lied to me. You led me to believe one thing and this morning you casually reveal another, like it doesn’t matter.”

“It _doesn’t_—”

“_It matters to me!_” Aziraphale shouted.

The room grew very quiet. He was trembling. He’d never...never _yelled_ like that before.

It filled him with anguish.

Crowley stared at the floor. “...I’m sorry.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, hoarse. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have—”

“I took away something that could have been special to you. To us both. I see that, now.”

“Really, it’s hardly...it’s not…” Aziraphale sighed. “No,” he said, “you’re right. You absolutely did. And I can’t pretend I’m not hurt.” He looked around for the rest of his clothes and finished dressing. “I think I’d like to spend the day alone.”

“That’s quite alright. Ask the staff for anything you need. They’re happy to serve.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale pulled on his boots and left.

* * *

He walked for an hour along the beach in one direction, finding a little fishing village where they were hauling in the morning’s catch. Aziraphale watched for some time before he turned and walked back toward the palace. At lunch, he went to the kitchens and asked for a sandwich and some lemonade, then took it into the gardens and at it while reading a book. He napped in one of the libraries.

In the early evening, he found a piano and someone to help him tune it, and began to play

“You sound lovely, sir,” Elizabeth said as she passed. “A natural at it. How long’ve you played?”

“Since I was a boy. Five or so.”

“It shows,” she said. “I have a brother who plays, but he gets no practice anymore. Work and all.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Ma says he could be a professional at it, but da thinks it’s a waste.”

“In the north we have a very grand music school,” Aziraphale said. “Turns out the most talented players in the world.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Shame he couldn’t go,” she said. “More of a shame we don’t have one here.” She smiled. “I won’t bother you anymore, sir. Dinner’s at seven, in the dining room.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale watched her go and went back to his music.

When he came into the dining room that night, Crowley was sitting in his customary spot, scribbling away. He looked up when he heard Aziraphale’s footsteps, and stood quickly, chair scraping angrily on the tile.

“I—”

“There’s nothing to say,” Aziraphale said. He closed the distance between them and kissed Crowley’s cheek. “I’ve had a perfectly mindless day, and I don’t want to argue anymore.”

Crowley’s expression softened, and he sat back down, pushing his letter to the side. “I heard you playing,” he said. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you about the piano.”

“No need. I was happy to find it on my own.” He reached for Crowley’s hand and held it on the table. “A thought did occur to me today.”

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I really should have _asked._”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m not sure I would have told you the truth.”

“Perhaps not.”

“...Can we be alright?” Crowley asked. “This doesn’t...it doesn’t _change_ anything, does it?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale kissed his hand. “Now, tell me about your day.”

“I was _miserable_,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale nodded. “I know,” he said. “So was I.”

* * *

“Crowley, I adore you, you know this.”

“Thank you, angel.” Crowley peered into the mirror and finished pinning his hair back. “Love hearing that.”

“As I was _saying._” Aziraphale went to him and fixed his tunic and cloak. “I _adore_ you, but I am not a fan of being kept in the dark.”

“Ah, so no blindfolds, then?” Aziraphale flushed. “Oh, so _maybe_—”

“Who is visiting?” Aziraphale asked quickly and went to lace up his boots. Crowley leaned against the wall, watching him. Aziraphale glanced up. “Secrets don’t become you, my love.”

Crowley sighed. “My uncle chose me as his heir. The line of succession in the south doesn’t work as traditionally as it does in other countries, yours included. My uncle spent most of his reign absolutely terrorizing people, keeping the east and west so frightened of trade I had to pry them out of their shells. So he never married, never had any children. I’ve spent so much of my own reign picking up the pieces of his, I fell into the same trap. Now I’m thirty nine and childless. I won’t force some woman to marry me just so I can have a son or daughter. So I’ve...followed in my uncle’s footsteps, so to speak.”

Aziraphale stood. “How so?”

“I—” A knock came at the door. “Enter,” Crowley called.

Elizabeth stepped inside. “Sir, the young master is here. Should I see him inside?”

Crowley grinned. “Yes. I’ll be down in a moment.” Elizabeth nodded and excused herself. Crowley looked at Aziraphale. “You won’t be the dark a moment longer. Come on.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him out of the room.

“_Crowley!_”

“I promise, you’ll understand.” He was _giddy_ with anticipation, Aziraphale could feel it. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Crowley went to the front doors of the palace and shoved them open. They swung wide, revealing a small carriage pulling away, and a young boy, no more than ten, standing in the dust, swatting at his clothes.

“_Warlock._”

The boy looked up and grinned. “_Crowley!_”

They embraced. Crowley knelt down to get a closer look. “So _big_,” he said. “I can’t believe it’s been almost a year.”

“You’re the one who didn’t visit.”

“I know, _I know._ That was a mistake, and I won’t make it again.” He kissed the boy’s forehead and stood. “Warlock, I want you to meet my friend, Aziraphale.”

Warlock nodded. “Sir.”

“Warlock,” Crowley said, “will be spending a few weeks with us here. We have so _much_ to learn, don’t we?”

“Do I have a room here?”

“Of course. Ask Miss Elizabeth, she’ll show you.”

Warlock nodded and ran past Aziraphale and inside.

“...He’s your _heir._”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been at this?”

Crowley shrugged. “Three years, I suppose? His family, the Dowlings, they’re nobility here in the south. I met them during a land dispute. _Lord_ Dowling is a bit useless. Deals mostly with his family’s money, making sure it’s invested properly and such. _Lady_ Dowling is quite shrewd. This was half her idea. She was aware of how I’d come to be my uncle’s heir, and introduced me to her son.”

Aziraphale raised a brow. “Clever woman.”

“Indeed.” Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s elbow. “I didn’t tell you sooner because I wasn’t sure what you’d think. This is...unconventional. I know it doesn’t work that way in the north.”

“Nothing works in the north the way it does here,” Aziraphale said, and leaned in to kiss him. “I trust your decision. If you think the boy is fit to be king, then I’m sure that’s the case.”

“Well,” Crowley said, “he’s not right _now. _But he will be, in time.” He linked their arms. “Come on,” he said. “It’s nearly breakfast.”

* * *

Crowley believed Warlock was clever and quick, that he had his mother’s shrewdness and a great deal of potential.

Aziraphale thought he was rambunctious and rather _loud._ He lept, _screaming_, of the edge of the boat into the water to Crowley’s absolute delight, and talked incessantly at every meal, stopping only the shovel more food in his mouth.

“He has _no_ manners,” Aziraphale said one evening, after he’d cleaned the potatoes that had been _flung_ at him from his tunic.

“Yes, he’s a bit rough around the edges where that’s concerned.” Crowley tossed his belt onto the back of a chair and toed off his boots. “But he’s _sound_. You see it, don’t you?”

“I suppose…”

“He has a lot to learn, I’m not denying that. But if I don’t start now then he won’t be ready for court. I’m hoping to have him living at the castle when he’s fourteen or so.”

“_Fourteen?_”

“Of course. I was much younger by the time my uncle had me paraded about as his heir. Just a year older than him, actually.”

Not for the first time, Aziraphale was struck by the starkness of Crowley’s upbringing. He had spent the majority of his life, it seemed, being told _not_ to smile. It compared strangely with Aziraphale’s childhood, where he was scolded for not smiling _enough._ How they’d survived was beyond understanding.

“I don’t know if your own experiences are an appropriate point of comparison.”

Crowley shrugged. “They’re not a bad starting point. My uncle might have been a monster most days, but he taught me the most important things a young king needs to know.”

“Such as?”

Crowley sighed. “A steady hand, a sure mind. No hesitations. To rule,” he said, “is to know. And what you _don’t_ know is simply inconsequential.”

“You’re saying people should _adapt_ to your ignorance?”

“I’m saying that the rule of law is the _king’s_ law. All others come secondary.”

Aziraphale laughed. “That is the single most _ignorant_ thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Is it?”

“Yes! Can’t you see that’s nothing more than an excuse to be as brutal as your uncle was? Oh, this doesn’t seem to fit my standard of measurement when it comes to the law. Therefore it must be rejected.”

“You’re saying the king’s law is flawed, then.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“My uncle was cruel and ignorant,” Crowley said. “I am not.”

“Certainly, but what if you come across something you don’t understand? Some kind of...of _logic_ that doesn’t fit your personal code. What do you do with it?”

“I learn about it.”

“Do you, though? Because you’ve had a fairly easy time of it these last years, haven’t you? War? Well that makes sense. Border disputes, land grabs. It’s all the things that have been _covered_ before. Things that _fit_ your kingly paradigm.”

“...What are you implying?”

“I am implying nothing,” Aziraphale said. “I am stating the obvious. You have a narrow view of how the world works, because your world has worked quite well within your personal boundaries. No hiccups. What will you do when it stops being that way? What will you do when the world starts _changing?_”

“Ha! As if you’re _different_ from me,” Crowley said.

“I never claimed to be. I’m pointing out the flaws in my own logic, too, I suppose.”

“Oh, well how _noble_ of you, sir. How _brave_ of you to turn the eye in on yourself, while lording it over me. I’m not a fool, Aziraphale. I understand that times are changing. But I keep _my _law here—” He tapped his temple. “And it has served me well these last years.”

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear, you are _limited_ by your pain. _That_ is what I am trying to tell you.”

Crowley went very still. “...What _pain?_”

“Pain you’ve admitted to. The pain of your youth. Your experiences are marred by what your uncle put you through. He gave you _nothing_. You try and make excuses for him, to find the silver lining, but why can’t you just say it out loud. Just between us?” Aziraphale went to him. “He _hurt you_. And you must let that go before you pass along anything else to that boy.”

Crowley brushed him off. “I won’t be lectured by _you_ about _child rearing._”

“I’ll pretend not to have heard that. I know you’re angry.”

Crowley rounded on him. “_Stop that._ Stop dictating my emotions, stop telling me how I _feel_.”

“So you’d consider yourself at ease, then?”

“If I am not only you are to blame.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s quite easy to shift that onto me.” Aziraphale sighed. “Let’s move on from this. So your uncle passed on this _king’s law_, or whatever you’re calling it. What else can you teach him?”

Crowley looked stricken, but allowed the moment to pass. “Very well. I thought this summer, since we’re fresh off the trade deal, we’d cover negotiation tactics. The south is vulnerable in a lot of deals because of our past. He needs to be taught how to hold his own.”

“And I think you are _more_ than capable of teaching him that.”

They moved onto the balcony and sat at their table. Crowley leaned forward on his elbows. “You’re still not pleased.”

“Not in the slightest.”

Crowley sighed. “So you find me lacking, then? You think I can’t teach him properly?”

“On the contrary. But I’d like to know more. What _else_ does he need to learn?”

Crowley threw his hands in the air. “You want a bloody _lesson plan?_”

“Yes!”

“Oh, this is why I never should have told you. Of _course_ you’d tried to micromanage it. All that blasted Golden Court nonsense. Let’s be sure we’ve got an itinerary for _Tuesday_, yeah? Wouldn’t want to miss the thirty minute lesson where we learn to hold our _tea cups_ the right way.”

“You hold your tea cup the _wrong_ way,” Aziraphale said. “I wasn’t going to tell you, of course. You’re quite prone to emotional outbursts when it comes to manners.”

“_I am not prone to—_” Crowley stopped. Took a breath. “I am not prone to _emotional outbursts._ Ever.” Aziraphale raised a brow. “Fine. A lesson plan. I had hoped by the time he was fourteen, he could sit among my advisors as their pupil, at the very least. By sixteen, I wanted him advising me. By eighteen, he would rule as my equal.”

“And when would he rule?”

Crowley shrugged. “When I died, I suppose. I assumed it would be sooner rather than later.”

Aziraphale scowled. “How dare you say that to me. Invite me to spend my life with you and you make statements like _that._”

“My uncle became terribly ill when he was barely fifty,” Crowley said. “I assumed the same would happen to me.”

“Preposterous.”

“So you intend to stop me from dying?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale snapped, aware of how ridiculous he sounded. Crowley said nothing. “Where, in all this, are his other studies? His maths and sciences? His art and reading?”

“His parents take care of that.”

“Yes, but _you_ could elevate those things. You could have _any_ writer or thinker you desire to come to the castle, or here, even! They could teach him things, things you wished you’d been taught as a boy. Is there _nothing_ you wish your uncle had allowed you to study?”

Crowley was very quiet. He rested his chin in his hand and faced the ocean. “Yes,” he said quietly. “When I was very young, I wanted to play the violin.”

“Did you now?”

“Mmhm. My uncle forbid it, of course. Music was a waste. I needed to work on other things, more important things.”

“Like what?”

Crowley said nothing.

“_Crowley._”

“Like _negotiating_,” he snapped. “And knowing my place and power. Fine, _fine!_ Are you happy?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said, reaching across the table for Crowley’s hand. “I’m terribly sad,” he murmured, “for the little boy you were.”

“Well don’t be. I learned my place, didn’t I? I did well enough.”

“Yes, but are you happy?”

“Of course I am. I’ve told you, I’m always happy with you.”

“No, Crowley.” Aziraphale stood and went to him, reaching out to cradle his face in his hands. “Tell me, my love. _Are you happy?_”

Crowley stared at him for so long, Aziraphale thought he might be broken. The only noise was the tide crashing against the shore. It could make one feel so _lonely_, Aziraphale thought. Just you, standing at the edge of the world, only the sea for company. He pictured a very small boy with red curls, sentenced here when he was too much for his uncle to handle. Wandering these achingly empty halls for hours at a time, sitting alone beneath a lemon tree, only a stiff northern tutor for company.

“No,” Crowley said, his voice breaking. “No I am not.”

“And if you taught him all the same things, if he was raised precisely the same way as you, would that make you happy?” Crowley shook his head. “Then you must _change_ things. Change how he learns to take your place.”

“How?” Crowley asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Could we do it together? If we both...if you and I were to teach him things, _important_ things—”

“Crowley, I was not raised much better than you.”

“Yes, but you know things. You...you know how to hold the _bloody_ tea cup.”

Aziraphale laughed, and that broke the tension. Crowley rose out of his chair and kissed him.

“On our own,” Crowley said, “you and I aren’t much.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, “you’re right about that.”

“But...but both of us. We could give him something better.”

“We could certainly try.” Aziraphale leaned against Crowley’s chest, comforted by his embrace. “My dear, can you forgive me? I was rude and _mean_ earlier. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“We got here, didn’t we? No sense in having regrets.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Come to bed,” he said, pulling back. “I’m exhausted.”

Crowley hummed and followed him inside. After they had changed and turned down the lights, they settled down for the night, Aziraphale nodding off in the crook of Crowley’s arm.

“You know,” Crowley said softly, “he is luckier than me in one way.”

“And how’s that?”

“He’s got his family. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You know, and I say this as the youngest of many siblings who never particularly cared for me, but I think you’re _right._”

* * *

“...What are we _doing?_” Warlock asked, sitting at the piano bench.

Aziraphale smiled. “_We_ are having a piano lesson. Do you play any music at home?”

Warlock shook his head. “No. But mother has lots of parties, and I get to listen to all kinds of music when she does.”

“And? Do you like it?”

The boy shrugged. “I mean, it’s fine. Parties are boring, though.”

“I wholeheartedly agree. But, if _you_ were the one playing music, they wouldn’t be so dull, would they?”

“I guess not.”

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll _try_ it,” he said. “And perhaps you’ll find you like it.” Warlock nodded. “Now, we’ll start very simple,” Aziraphale said, “with some scales.” He helped Warlock place his fingers in the correct position. “Watch carefully.”

They practiced for half an hour or so, until Warlock began to wiggle just a bit too much, and Aziraphale released him into the rose garden. Crowley was already there, looking over Evelyn’s shoulder, muttering about something.

“It’s the bloody soil,” he said. “Keeps those from getting as big as they should.”

“My thoughts, too, sire,” she said, standing up straight. “But I’m sure we can think of something.”

“Certainly.” Crowley looked up as Warlock ran past. “_Careful!_” he shouted, and turned to Aziraphale. “Well hello there.”

“Hello.” Aziraphale kissed him as Evelyn moved down the path. “I didn’t realize you had a green thumb.”

Crowley waved a hand. “Learned a few things when I would spend my summers here alone. No time to grow things now, of course.”

“We could make time,” Aziraphale suggested, and Crowley shrugged. “Well, we had a wonderful lesson. He’s got a knack for music, I think.”

“That’s good.”

“Does he know how to sail?” Crowley shook his head. “Perhaps you should take him out tomorrow, teach him what you know.”

“That’s not a bad idea, angel.” Crowley kissed his temple. “Little genius of mine, aren’t you?” He slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s and they followed Warlock through the garden.

That evening, both Crowley _and_ his ward got a rather wordy lesson on using the proper silverware, which neither of them enjoyed. Crowley instigated a game of “turn your fork into a catapult for the olives” in retaliation, but all the same — it was a wonderful day.

* * *

When Warlock left, he was laden down with books of poetry and art history, pages and pages of notes on negotiation. He had plans to visit the castle in the spring and join them at the country estate, and Crowley promised to send something along for his eleventh birthday. And then, just before he left, Warlock motioned Crowley to come close and whispered something in his ear.

Crowley turned a delightful shade of pink.

“I will, um. I will take that under consideration,” he said, and stepped back. “Behave for your mother.”

“Yes, sir.” Warlock climbed into the carriage. “Goodbye, Aziraphale!” he called out as it pulled away, leaning almost completely out the window.

Aziraphale sighed — his poor heart just couldn’t take anymore of this, he thought. “Goodbye, dear boy,” he called after him. He turned to Crowley. “What did he _say?_” he asked.

“Hm?” Crowley’s cheeks were still a little flushed. He coughed. “Ah, nothing. Come on, we should take the boat out before it gets dark.”

Aziraphale followed him inside, considering this. “You know, there’s...there’s one thing we haven’t done,” he said. “That you promised me we would. I mean...I mean summer isn’t _over_,” Aziraphale said nervously, “but I’ve just been thinking about it.”

“Oh?” Crowley turned to him. The late afternoon sun was spilling in from the windows, and it cast him in the _loveliest_ glow. “And what did I promise you, angel?” He stepped closer.

“Don’t you remember? You promised to take me out one night, up the hill to the lemon tree.” Aziraphale reached up and traced the edge of Crowley’s collar. “I think there was some mention of me..._screaming_ your name?” Crowley sucked in a breath. “And then, of course, you promised I could have you in the rose garden. But I suppose that could _wait_—”

“_Elizabeth!_” Crowley ran off, making plans for the evening.

Aziraphale felt _terribly_ smug.

* * *

“Stop _teasing._”

Crowley laughed near Aziraphale’s ear, the head of his cock just barely inside. “Oh? Is there something you _want_, angel?”

“You,” Aziraphale gasped. “I want _you_.”

“I’m only too happy to let you have me,” Crowley murmured. He pushed himself up, hands on either side of Aziraphale’s head, and looked down. “You are so beautiful like this,” he said. “How on earth did no one try and keep you to themselves?”

Aziraphale moaned. “I talk too much, just..._please._”

“Of course, angel.” Crowley leaned down and kissed him. With a slow roll of his hips he pushed further in. “_Fuck_. You can’t let me go so long without this. So _bloody_ tight.”

They hadn’t gone to bed together like this in some weeks, not since their fight just after Warlock had arrived. Then they’d gotten very busy, but now that he was gone, the last weeks of summer spread out before them, and being right _here_, being like this — Aziraphale couldn’t imagine anything better.

Crowley pulled out and thrust back in, grunting with the effort. “_Fuck, fuck_—”

“Harder,” Aziraphale pleaded. You can’t hurt me, just _move_.”

“So _bossy_.”

“You said I was going to scream your name and so far I haven’t — _oh. _Oh, that’s good.” Aziraphale hissed as Crowley began to fuck him in earnest, each slide of his cock slow and delicious. “You _feel_—”

“That’s it angel, give it up for me.”

“Oh, you feel wonderful. You feel _perfect._ Just...just _harder_, Crowley,_ please._”

Crowley nodded and, on his next thrust, he pushed in, hard. Aziraphale cried out, gripping his arms, back arching off the blanket.

“Again, _oh_, do it again—”

“Anything, angel, _anything_ you want.”

“I want you, I want you completely.”

“And you can have me,” Crowley murmured. He moved. He _moved _and he _moved_. His hair fell over his shoulders in an auburn wave and Aziraphale reached up and brushed it aside, sliding his fingers through it slowly, savoring the feeling.

“I am _so lucky_,” Aziraphale said. “I—” He cried out. “_Crowley!_”

“_There_ it is,” Crowley said. “Say it again, angel. _Say it again._”

“Crowley, _Crowley_—”

“That’s right. _Fuck_, you sound pretty that way. Don’t stop,” he said, “don’t you _dare_ stop.”

“Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale said his name again and again, louder and louder, dragging nails down one of his arms and crying out. Crowley was thrusting madly, they were both so desperate for release.

“Aziraphale, I’m—”

“Come for me, let me feel you, let me have it.” Aziraphale held his face in both hands now. “Give it up for me, I want every bit of you.”

Crowley’s mouth hung open, frantic pleas unsaid dripping from his tongue. With one last thrust, Crowley came, and Aziraphale tipped his head back and _wailed_, Crowley’s name filling the night. He felt his own release spread over his stomach and marveled at he’d come untouched. It didn’t happen often.

“_Fuck_,” Crowley said, and slipped out, rolling onto his side with a groan. “Holy _hell_.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aziraphale murmured. He was a terrible mess, but Crowley didn’t seem so out of it that he couldn’t help clean up. Aziraphale luxuriated in the soft thrust of Crowley’s tongue against his hole and delightfully swallowed his come when it was offered. “Wonderful.”

Crowley laughed, licking a line up Aziraphale’s chest before he gave up and wiped the rest with the blanket. “Well,” he said, “was it everything you dreamed?”

“Mmm. That and more.”

“Wonderful.” Crowley pulled their other blanket up and over them. “So good for me,” he said.

Aziraphale sighed. “We can’t sleep here, you know. It’s entirely inappropriate.”

“I will sleep where I bloody well _choose_.”

“Of course, dear.” He rolled over and faced Crowley, reaching out to brush the hair from his face.

Crowley leaned in close. “I’m sorry, you know.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Whatever for?”

“That I’m...that I’m so—” He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face and keeping it there. He rolled to his back. “I’m hard to—”

Aziraphale kissed him. “Don’t say it,” he whispered, their lips still touching. “Because it isn’t true.”

Crowley stared up at him, mouth trembling. He closed his eyes, and Aziraphale kissed him again. He kissed him and kissed him and _kissed him_. He kissed him until Crowley rose up, winding his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and pulling him down. He kissed him until they were hard and frantic against one another, thrusting into Aziraphale’s fist until Crowley came first, his broken cry fading into the night.

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t want to leave the Summer Palace behind. He packed his things slowly, pitifully, and _pouted_ the entire time they were packed into the carriage.

“Remind me,” Crowley said, “you’re the youngest, right?”

“I’ve _enjoyed_ myself.”

Crowley laughed, putting an arm around his shoulders and kissing his cheek. “I know, angel. Me, too.” He looked back at the palace. “Next year,” he said. “We’ll be back next year.”

“Yes, _fine._” Aziraphale let Crowley help him into the carriage. He knew how Warlock felt, now. He wanted to lean out the window until he couldn’t see the lemon tree, and couldn’t smell citrus.

Crowley settled next to him. “It’ll be nice to get home,” he murmured, leaning back and closing his eyes.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “it will.”

Crowley opened one eye. “So you do, then. Think of it as home?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I do,” he said, leaning against Crowley’s shoulder. “But, really, I think my home is simply...you. And if you’re here, then it’s here. If you’re there...it’s there.”

Crowley reached over and took his hand, and they leaned against one another most of the way back, until Aziraphale grew very tired, and fell gently into Crowley’s lap. He felt thin fingers toying with his hair until he finally fell asleep.

* * *

The end of summer came with storm after storm. Aziraphale was in a _funk_. While he and Crowley had argued at the Grove, they had also grown closer, and they’d done it in the most beautiful place he’d ever been.

Now, he was trapped inside, while Crowley threw himself into his duties. He’d done things completely by correspondence for the last few months, but now that his advisors had him back, they weren’t quite ready to let him go. He left early each morning, hardly eating his breakfast, and returned late every night, having only a glass of wine and a bath before bed.

In two weeks, he’d lost far too much weight for Aziraphale to be comfortable with, so he started having Crowley fetched from whatever meeting he was in at midday and forced him to eat lunch.

“They’re _very_ cross with you,” Crowley said, “my advisors.” He didn’t seem too put out by this.”

“They are _welcome_ to try and stop me.”

Crowley laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t allow it. I’m glad you’ve been doing this. I forget myself, you know.”

“Among other things,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Oh, _angel._ Are you feeling neglected?” Crowley speared an olive on the end of his fork and held it out. Aziraphale took it between his teeth. “I’ll finish early tonight, if I can, and you can have your wicked way with me.”

“I’ll believe that when it happens,” Aziraphale said, and wasn’t surprised when Crowley didn’t return until after midnight. He was up at dawn the next day and _gone_, and their lunch together was rushed. “What’s _happening?_” Aziraphale asked.

“Hiccup with the trade deal. Salt part. Our salt makers feel like they’re getting a bad deal.”

“Yes, well, they should have complained about that _months_ ago!”

Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair. He kept it pulled back completely in a loose ponytail. Aziraphale desperately wanted to tuck in the strands of hair that kept slipping out of it. “I know,” he muttered and grabbed a piece of bread from the table. “I need to run,” he said, leaning down to kiss Aziraphale’s temple. “It’s stopped raining. You should go into town, get a book and enjoy yourself.”

“If you insist.” Aziraphale watched him and sighed. He changed into something different, just in case the rain came again, and walked down the hill into the capitol.

The Youngs managed a cafe above their shop, so Aziraphale took a few books and went up the stairs to order a coffee. The Youngs’ son, Adam, served him. He must have been the same age as Warlock, Aziraphale thought, and wondered if they’d make good playmates. The Youngs were a very lovely family.

Warlock had written to him twice since they’d parted, telling Aziraphale that he was enjoying the poems Aziraphale had sent along, and that his mother was having someone teach him piano. Aziraphale asked Adam for some pen and paper and quickly scribbled a letter in response. He paid for his drink and books and walked to the post office.

On his way back, he saw Newt leaving Anathema’s shop. She fixed his collar, pushed herself up on her toes, and kissed him goodbye.

Aziraphale smiled. It was important to keep things in perspective, he thought, and climbed the hill to the castle.

That night Crowley _did_ manage to finish early, and they enjoyed dinner together on the balcony until it started to rain again. Aziraphale bathed and Crowley knelt by the tub, running his fingers through the water and complaining quietly about the day.

“I wrote Warlock a letter,” Aziraphale said, when he’d grown quiet. “He’s learning piano.”

“That’s good,” Crowley murmured. “He’ll be...well rounded? Is that what you call it?”

Aziraphale hummed. “Yes.” He sighed, running a wet hand through his hair. “It’s...nice,” he said, “to see someone learn the things I did as a boy and know they won’t be wasted on the court.” Crowley shifted, obviously listening. “I wanted to go to music school, or university, you know. I wanted to learn something valuable and _use it._ I thought since I was the youngest, I might be...free. From certain expectations.” Crowley reached over and stroked his cheek.

“May I be selfish, angel?”

“Have I _ever_ stopped you before?”

“Excellent point.” Crowley stood and took a towel from the hook by the tub and held it out. Aziraphale stood and let Crowley wrap him in it. “While I think you would have made a _beautiful_ concert pianist, or a brilliant philosopher, I must admit—” He ran his hands over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I’m very glad to have you here. With me. And maybe you and I would have met some other way. Maybe I’d have seen you playing in some concert hall, or you’d have written a book someone gave me in passing. I don’t know. I can..._imagine_, I suppose.” Crowley sighed. “But I have you here, like this. And I’m...I’m _happy._”

Aziraphale laughed. “The past can’t be changed. We deal with what we have, don’t we, my love?”

“Indeed we do.” Crowley looked him up and down. “Tell me, angel...do you mind if I take you to bed like this?”

“Oh _no_, your Majesty.” Aziraphale let Crowley pull him away from the tub. “Not at _all_.”

* * *

“You know,” Aziraphale said, “I forgot my birthday.”

Crowley sat up. “Did you?”

“Yes. It was in June. I was..._distracted._ And I haven’t celebrated my birthday properly in years, of course, so it’s really no wonder.” Crowley raised a brow. “What?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing, really. Just considering what a disaster we are together.” Crowley laid back in bed and put one hand behind his head. “I forgot my birthday, too.”

“_What?_ W-when was it?”

“Beginning of August.” He waved a hand. “Nothing to fret over angel. We’ll make a big deal about it next year.”

“Well...well, _yes_, of course we will, but why didn’t you—”

“Because my birthday has never been important,” Crowley said. “And I simply...wasn’t thinking about it.”

Aziraphale huffed. He’d not even gotten a _letter_. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. His mother had mentioned it, once, at the end of May, how it would be lovely to spend his birthday in the south. Birthdays had never really been _important_ back home. You didn’t celebrate yourself. You celebrated the court.

“Next year,” Crowley said, “I will throw you the _grandest_ party.”

“You mean you’ll let me throw my_self_ a party,” Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley grinned. “_Precisely._ And then, you and I can go off somewhere alone for mine and pretend the entire world has disappeared, for an entire week.” He kissed him slowly, deeply. Aziraphale moaned.

“Can we do that _now?_”

“No,” Crowley said. “I’ve so much work. But perhaps in the winter.” He tugged Aziraphale further into bed. “M’tired, angel,” he said.

“Get some sleep, my dear.” Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley head and pulled him close.

He felt, quite clearly, that he belonged. He felt that he mattered. He felt _loved._ It struck him, of course, that neither had _said_ it, but Aziraphale wasn’t sure he needed to _hear_ it. Crowley’s love was everywhere, it poured out of him in the little things he said and did. And Aziraphale hoped beyond hope that his own felt the same. That each time Aziraphale read to him, Crowley could feel it. That he could hear it in Aziraphale’s music and sense it in every touch.

This was _home_, he thought, and it felt _right._


	3. fall, and the end of caution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, okay, got this one done. had planned to have it out by thursday, but here it is! warning: there is some use of slurs in this chapter, as well as a liberal abuse of biblical names and, in general, more vague locations.

Fall came upon them slowly, slowly, _slowly_, and then Aziraphale woke one morning to see the trees behind the castle were a wash of red and orange.

The entire capital seemed to have changed overnight. The goods sold in the market turned over, the cafe above the Young’s bookshop was busier than ever, and young Anathema was in a rush to give out health tonics for the sea of colds and flu that were oncoming. Aziraphale kept his trips out of the castle brief — didn’t want to get caught underfoot during the mad rush to prepare for winter.

The castle was busy, too. Crowley had settled the issues with the salt makers some weeks before, but now there was the problem of making sure the new cattle farmers had the proper buildings on their land for winter. No one had bred cattle in the south for _years_. Their largest livestock, as far as Aziraphale could tell, was _goat._

“Bloody pain, is what this is. If you’d told me in the spring how much _work_ a cow was, I’d have changed the whole thing.”

“Oh, come now,” Aziraphale said. He set his book in his lap. “Your people are _thrilled_ at the prospect.”

“You’ve read the letters,” Crowley said, “you know how they feel.”

“That’s very _few_, Crowley. You’re dwelling, we’ve talked about this.” He went back to his book, and Crowley continued to huff at his desk.

The two of them had fallen into an easy life together. Aziraphale looked over Crowley’s correspondence in the morning and they ate an early breakfast together on the balcony, if it wasn’t too cold. At noon, Crowley returned for lunch or a coffee, depending on his mood, and they talked about his morning meetings, any issues that had come up over the last few days, and whatever book Aziraphale was reading at the time. Crowley’s evenings could stretch on for hours, well past what Aziraphale considered a suitable hour, and so he often went to bed alone. He would sometimes wake in the middle of the night to find Crowley closing the door behind him, tossing his clothes onto the back of an armchair, and crawling under the sheets.

They were delightfully in sync, Aziraphale thought, and was more than happy to spend the fall at the castle, getting used to Crowley’s comings and goings, and turning the castle into a proper home. It needed a larger piano, which he’d ordered, and the draperies were in a terrible state. He and Madame Tracy had passed hours together the week before, looking over fabric swatches and designs. He’d shown them to Crowley when he passed by, and Crowley had only kissed his forehead and mumbled, “Whatever you’d like, angel,” before rushing off to his next meeting.

Aziraphale had every intention of passing the season in its entirety at the castle, and certainly would have, too, if a particular letter had not arrived on a particular Monday morning and turned their lives upside down.

“...King Abraham is requesting your presence, Crowley. _Again._”

“I’ve already told him no,” Crowley said, scrawling his name at the bottom of a different note. “It’s not my fault if he can’t _read_.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, have you thought about...what saying yes might _mean?_”

“Yes,” Crowley said, looking up. “It would mean traveling hours north to a place I _don’t_ like, spending time with people I don’t know, and doing things I generally consider a nuisance. Trust me,” he added, “I’ve thought about it.”

“Abraham is a good king, and if you bothered to know him you’d see that.”

Crowley had returned to his work, hunched over again. “Is he now?”

“_Yes._” Aziraphale came and stood behind him, forcing him to sit up straight. “He is good and fair, and he isn’t inviting you under any false pretenses.”

Crowley’s hand stilled on the page. “...I never said that.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, “but you were thinking it.”

The room grew very quiet. Crowley reached behind him and touched Aziraphale’s hand still resting on his shoulder. “How have you come to know me so well?” he asked.

“You said it yourself. I was meant to.” Crowley turned to face him and Aziraphale cupped his cheek. “I know you’d prefer not to travel. I’d like you to remain here myself, but...an audience with the king is a rare offering. The invitation may sound unappealing _now_, but you could find yourself in a year wishing you had one. It could be a fruitful relationship.”

Crowley nodded. “And if I went, it would make you happy?”

Aziraphale raised a brow. “That’s _hardly_ what’s at stake here.”

“But if I did, it would.”

“...Yes. Yes, it would.”

Crowley stood, kissed Aziraphale’s forehead. “Then we’ll go.”

“_We?_”

“Of course, I’m not going _north_ without my northern angel.” Crowley rang the bell for Madame Tracy. “You know the weather best, the invitation says he wants us there in two week’s time. Send a response on my behalf accepting, quick as you can, and start getting what we need together.” Madame Tracy knocked and Crowley opened the door. “Aziraphale and I are going north, to meet with King Abraham.”

She looked stunned. “..._Really?_”

“Yes. We’ll need a proper carriage, one of the nicer ones my uncle used when he traveled. Have it repaired as soon as possible.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And we’ll need to bring a gift, something that best represents us. Does your king enjoy fruit? Would the reserve lemons do?”

“I’m...sure he wouldn’t say no.”

Crowley nodded. “I’ll think of a few other things as well. Perhaps a cloak, southern made ones fare better in winter.” He stopped. Seemed to process a few things, then kept moving. “We’ll think more on this later. I’ll let my advisors know in the morning.” He looked up. “That will be all, Madame Tracy.”

She bowed, “Of course, sir,” and left the room.

In bed that night, Crowley asked, “Will you be happy to return home?” and wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

“I miss my mother,” Aziraphale admitted, “but that’s really all. I _do_ miss a few other things, too, but I was surprised that you asked me to come with you.”

“I won’t go to _your_ homeland without you, Aziraphale. Besides, I’d hate to be there alone.”

“It can be quite...isolating.”

Crowley kissed the back of his neck. “How so?”

“Oh, when you’re someone like me, people know exactly what you are, what you _do._ They’re either dying to speak with you or trying _very_ hard to pretend you don’t exist. Usually the latter.”

“And? When you return home with a king by your side?”

“I’m sure they’ll have all manner of things to say about me.”

“They’d better not,” Crowley growled, and rolled Aziraphale onto his back, rising up and caging him between his arms. “_I_ can turn into a serpent. Remember?” He hissed for effect and Aziraphale laughed. “What? You don’t find me terribly frightening?”

“No, my love. Not in the slightest.” Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheek and kissed him. “But the Golden Court can be _ruthless_, Crowley. It’s important you understand that.”

“I can be just _as_,” he muttered, and rolled back onto his side, burying his nose in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. It didn’t serve to prove his point.

* * *

Over the next few days, Aziraphale worked on finding pieces of clothing that would suit Crowley best. Everything he owned was simple, as he preferred it, but Crowley would stick out in the Golden Court like a sullen _stone _if Aziraphale didn’t do _something_. Perhaps Crowley _wanted _that, but Aziraphale knew how the north could cut. He had no intention of throwing Crowley to the wolves.

“What on _earth_ are these?” Crowley asked.

“They’re clothes.”

“They’re _hideous._”

Aziraphale sighed. “You should be a bit _kinder_ to your seamstress. I had these two custom made. The others were ones you never wear, I just had her spruce them up.”

“_Spruce them up?_ They’re decorative!”

“They’re _fitting_, considering where you’re about to go.”

Crowley tossed one of the shirts onto the bed. “You keep _saying_ that, angel. But why should I worry? Why should I be concerned with what your court says about me? Why should I _even_—” He stopped. Looked at the clothes. Looked at Aziraphale, who had turned away and was pretending to be very busy with his own packing. “...They’ll be cruel to you. Won’t they?”

“The court’s opinion of me hardly matters _now_. I live here.”

“No.” Crowley stepped closer, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “Your siblings.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes. _Yes_, they’ll say things and I don’t...well of course I want everyone to have a high opinion of _you._ I want everyone to look at you and kick themselves for spreading those awful rumors. I want them to see you and swallow their _tongues_ over how bloody handsome you are, how regal and _good_. But, selfishly, yes. I want Gabriel to wonder if he should have sent himself. I want every single one of them to look at you and be _terribly_ jealous of me and I’m _sorry_—”

Crowley kissed him. “Don’t be. Indulge in it, angel. I will look however you’d like, if it makes you happy.”

Aziraphale went to the bed and lifted one of the shirts. “It’s not _so_ bad, you know. And it’s just a few pieces, most of your regular clothes I didn’t have them touch.”

Crowley looked over them again, head tipped to the side. He nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You’ll still be you,” Aziraphale said, and pulled him close to kiss him again. “You’ll still be the king in the south, still be dressed all _drab_ and dreary. _And_—” Aziraphale picked up the nicest one, intended for the day they signed the trade deal. “If you’ll notice—” He pointed to the collar. Lined with snakes.

“Oh, you’re _wicked_, angel. And I do love that about you.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Keep them guessing, my dear. _Always_ keep them guessing.”

* * *

A letter from Aziraphale’s mother arrived the day they were set to leave. It made him smile. _I’m eager to see you again, to hear about the south, words spoken in your voice. Travel safe, my dear. I will see you soon. _Aziraphale set down the letter and glanced out the window for one last look at the sea before they left. It would be less than two weeks, but he was already..._homesick._ Homesick for the castle and the ocean and Virgil itself.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale turned — and sucked in a breath.

Crowley was looking over the papers on his desk, frowning deeply. “Should I bring any of this? I brought _some_, but my letters will have to wait, and Madame Tracy promised to have me alerted to any emergencies as soon as possible.” He looked up. “...Are you alright?”

Aziraphale went to him. “I am,” he said, “you just...you look very handsome.”

And he did — he was wearing one of his new shirts, and the stitching across the front was so beautiful, so perfectly southern, Aziraphale nearly lost his breath again.

“Handsome enough for the north?”

“Too handsome,” Aziraphale chided. “I may have to leave you behind. Someone might steal you away.”

Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale’s arms and leaned in to kiss him. “Would anyone be so bold as to steal a king?”

Aziraphale looked up through his lashes, feeling coy, feeling _young_. “...I did,” he said. “Didn’t I?”

Crowley sighed. “Oh, _angel_.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t help—”

Someone knocked. Crowley growled and let go of him. “Yes?” he called, and the door opened.

“Sire,” one of the guards said. “They’re ready for you.”

Crowley nodded. “In a moment.” The door closed and he turned back to Aziraphale and kissed him fiercely. “We will _finish _this conversation _later_,” he said, and stepped back.

Aziraphale moved past him. “Yes,” he said, “I’m sure we will.”

Their bags were packed on the roof of the carriage along with the gifts to King Abraham. Crowley had tormented himself for days. On one hand, he didn’t want to seem like he was experience even a _modicum_ of joy from this. On the other, he wanted, more than anything, for Abraham to be _impressed._ For everyone in the court to be impressed. _Look at the king’s new cloak, is that southern stitching? And these lemons, they’re divine!_

“That’s not a terrible impression of the court,” Aziraphale had said. Now, as he was helped into the carriage by one of the footman, he was just as excited himself. Crowley stepped in after him a few moments later, and the door shut behind them.

Crowley turned to him. “We could cancel the trip right now.”

“We couldn’t. They’re expecting us by dinner.”

Crowley scowled. “Yes, alright.”

“If you _don’t_ show up, you don’t get to show off your presents.”

“They’re _not_—” Crowley huffed, instead of arguing, and folded his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he said, and pouted until they were outside of the city. Once on the road, he asked if Aziraphale would read to him, and Aziraphale, raised to be prepared for anything, pulled a book of short stories out from a leather bag under the seat, leaned into Crowley’s arms, and read to him for an hour.

* * *

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, kissing the shell of his ear. “You’ve fallen asleep on me.”

Aziraphale sat up in a daze, looking about. “Hm?”

“My arm,” Crowley said, and massaged it. “But I wanted you to be more comfortable.”

“Oh, I hate these sort of trips. I can never get comfortable.” Crowley sat up straight and gestured toward his lap. “My dear.”

“I mean it, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, alright.” He laid down and rested his head on Crowley’s thighs. It was _not_ comfortable. “You’re all bones.”

“I’m being _nice._”

“And I appreciate it,” Aziraphale said, “but you’re—”

“Oh, if you’re just going to complain, you may as well make yourself _busy_ down there.” Crowley looked out the window, shifting uncomfortably.

Aziraphale glanced over and —

“Ah,” he said. “I see.”

“I was joking, obviously.” Crowley tried to move Aziraphale off his lap, but Aziraphale stiffened against him. “_Angel._”

“...I could,” he said. They hadn’t been very intimate the last few days, too exhausted after a day of preparations and other work to really do more than talk softly in the dark until one of the passed out first. Aziraphale reached over and plucked gently at the strings of Crowley’s breeches. “If you’d like.”

Crowley looked down, his expression hard to read. Aziraphale began to pull back — he’d misunderstood, of course. Crowley _had_ been joking, and Aziraphale suggesting he just...that he...well, _here_, in the carriage, as they —

“Please,” Crowley murmured, and put a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s head. “Will you?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course.” He loosened Crowley’s breeches. Crowley pulled them down over his ass and thighs and Aziraphale sighed as his cock came free, half hard and already leaking. Aziraphale drew the flat of his tongue over the tip. “Oh, the taste of you,” he murmured. Crowley moaned softly above him. Aziraphale smiled, licked Crowley’s cock from root to tip a few times and then —

“_Angel_—” Crowley hand flew to Aziraphale’s hair and gripped it, hard. Aziraphale moaned around Crowley’s cock and began slowly taking the length of him into his mouth. Crowley’s hips bucked up, but Aziraphale put a steadying hand on his belly to hold him down. _Let me_, it said, and he took him even deeper. “_Ah_, ah fuck. _Fuck._” Crowley’s head fell back against the seat and he moaned absolutely _wantonly_ while Aziraphale took him again and again.

“You’ll have to swallow all of me.” Crowley muttered, and stroked Aziraphale’s cheek. “So we don’t make a mess of my new clothes.”

_You monster_, Aziraphale thought, narrowing his eyes.

Crowley chuckled. “You agreed to keep me, my dear.”

_Yes. Yes I did._ He pulled off almost completely, wrapping his hand around the base and giving it a firm squeeze. Crowley hissed with pleasure and Aziraphale began working at him in earnest, taking him into his mouth again and again, his other hand reaching down to cup Crowley’s sac and massage him.

“Oh, angel, oh _fuck_—” Crowley’s hips jerked up and he came with a shout their driver almost _certainly_ heard. “Angel, _angel._”

Aziraphale swallowed all he could. Anything else dripped onto his hand, and he pulled off with a wet sound, dragged his hand through the mess, and licked it clean. Crowley stared at him until every drop was gone, then grabbed Aziraphale and kissed him, licking the taste of himself from Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and reached for Aziraphale’s crotch. “May I—”

“I’ll be alright.”

“...You will?”

“Yes. Later,” Aziraphale added. “I very much want to _wait._ Until we...until we’re, ah…”

Crowley swallowed. “You want me to take you in your homeland.”

“Oh, oh _yes_,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him again. “I need you to. I need you to make me yours while we’re away. Over and over and _over_—” He stopped, catching his breath. “Crowley, I’m so—”

“I know.” Crowley kissed him again. “Believe me, I _know._”

Aziraphale sighed and helped Crowley clean himself up.

* * *

They both fell asleep once more before the driver announced loudly the castle was in sight. Crowley shifted in his seat.

“Already?” he asked. Aziraphale nodded and started fussing with his hair. Crowley swatted him away. “_Angel._”

“You’re a mess.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale said, and undid the pin in Crowley’s hair to redo it. “There.”

Crowley scowled and ran his hand over the top of his head a few times. “So. King Abraham.”

“Yes. Do you remember his wife’s name?”

“...Rachel. Three sons, too, right?” Aziraphale nodded again. “Isaac, Thomas, and...and _Benjamin_.”

“And his daughter?”

“Rebeccah.”

“Good.”

Crowley sighed. He _looked_ quite sure of himself, but Aziraphale had picked up on a few ticks over the past few months. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand, and the muscle by his lip would often twitch when he grew anxious. Aziraphale would sit him down and give him a cup of tea when he caught it, but for now, there was nothing to be done. Aziraphale could only reach up and stroke it with his thumb.

“You’re going to be _splendid_,” he said.

Crowley turned to him. “Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

“...What if I’m not? What if...what if he can’t stand me? What if say something horrid, you _know_ I will—”

Aziraphale kissed him. “You won’t, my love. I promise.”

“You’ll take care of me?”

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered. “Yes,” he murmured. “I will take care of you.”

Crowley nodded. “Good,” he said, and turned to look out the window.

The carriage continued on until they rode through the gates leading to the castle. Crowley pressed the folds out of his tunic a few times, took a few breaths, and prepared himself as they slowed to a stop. The driver hopped down, and a moment later, the door opened.

“_Presenting his Royal Highness, king of the Southern Kingdom, Anthony Crowley._”

Crowley took the hand offered and stepped down. Aziraphale followed. He glanced up and took in the sight of the castle and sighed. As much as he loved the south, as much as he adored Crowley — this was home. This is where he was raised, where he grew up, grew into the man he was. None of his siblings or his mother were there to greet them, that would have been inappropriate. Aziraphale could already feel eyes boring into him, judging him, questioning his presence. He thought to follow the servants, find Crowley once he was safely inside —

“King Anthony.” Abraham extended his hand and Crowley took it, and they bowed their heads to one another. “It’s an _honor_ to finally meet you. We were both children when you and your uncle visited us all those years ago. We were never able to meet properly.”

“I’m glad to help remedy that now,” Crowley said, and _oh,_ his voice was so smooth. As nervous as he’d been, Aziraphale had never really doubted he could do this. He was a king, and a king knew how to conduct himself in the places where he belonged.

Abraham introduced his wife and their children. Aziraphale looked at them fondly — he’d taught most of them their first piano lessons, and Thomas was an excellent swordsman. Perhaps they’d —

“You, of course, know my companion? Aziraphale?” Crowley was gesturing to him, and it was too late for Aziraphale to tell him _not_ to address him, at least until Abraham had. He came as Crowley beckoned with his hand and bowed to properly address the king.

“Sire,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“It’s wonderful to see you again as well, Aziraphale.” Aziraphale stood straight. “It’s a bit early for a meal, but I thought you might like this time to rest and freshen up before dinner. Get to know your part of the castle.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, offered Aziraphale his arm, and followed the king inside.

Aziraphale felt his anxiety beginning to grow. He was eager to see his mother, but it was wildly inappropriate for him to be tagging along with Crowley after the king. It would have been even more offensive if he simply walked away without announcing himself, and even _worse_ if he asked. No, best to stay on Crowley’s arm, and stay _quiet_.

“I’ll leave you here, the staff will show you to your room. I thought we might have a drink before dinner,” Abraham added, “so I’ll have someone fetch you.”

“Of course,” Crowley said. Abraham nodded and went off with his family deeper into the castle. Crowley and Aziraphale were led away, up a set of stone stairs and to a wing of the castle Aziraphale had been to many times. It was for guests.

“Your rooms,” someone said, and opened the door.

Crowley thanked them and they dashed off, probably frightened of him. He stepped into the room and sighed. “It’s very nice.”

“Well, _yes_,” Aziraphale said. “Did you expect them to put you in the dungeons?”

“With the reputation I apparently have?” Crowley shrugged. “I should have—”

“Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale stepped out of the room just in time to see Gabriel striding toward him. “_There_ you are, I was looking for you, I thought—” Gabriel stopped as Crowley stepped into the hall. He hesitated, then took a careful knee. “Your Majesty.”

Crowley raised a brow and stared for a moment before nodding and going back into the room. Gabriel rose on unsteady feet.

“I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “It’s good to see you again. I came to greet you because mother isn’t feeling well—”

“She’s not?” Aziraphale felt a twinge of panic. “What’s wrong, I could—”

Gabriel raised a hand. “Nothing to be concerned about. She’ll feel just fine for dinner tonight.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “well that’s good.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Thank you, Gabriel. It’s good to see you again.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but Crowley interrupted him, calling out, “Where are all your things?” and walking out into the hall. “Nothing in here is yours, it’s only mine.”

“Certainly _some _of my things are—”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Actually, I, uh. I had your things brought to your own room. I thought that was, ah. More appropriate.”

Crowley stepped forward. “Did you now?”

“Well. Well _yes_, actually. It’s hardly customary for—”

“_Aziraphale._”

Aziraphale turned to watch his mother come down the hall. She had always seemed to _float_ in his memories, and did so even now. “Mother.” He took a step forward and met her, reaching out to take her hand and kissing her knuckles.

“Oh, my _dear,_” she said — and _hugged_ him. Aziraphale nearly fell over in shock. His mother didn’t _hug_. She didn’t embrace and she didn’t _coo._ But now, she was doing exactly that. “Let me look at you,” she said, “let me see.” She ran her hands over his tunic and inspected the collar. “So _handsome_,” she said. “And look at your hair. Gabriel, darling, did you see his clothes? He looks a proper southerner, doesn’t he?”

“He does.” Gabriel looked as surprised about the attention as Aziraphale felt.

Their mother smiled and took Aziraphale’s arm. “You must introduce me to his Majesty, it’s been so _long._”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who was staring at his boots and trying to look very bored. “This is his Majesty, King Anthony, of the south.”

Crowley finally looked up. “Ma’am.”

Aziraphale’s mother curtsied. “Sire.”

Crowley sighed and took her hand. “There’s really no need for that.”

“Of course there is. _You_ are king.” She covered his hand with her own. “It’s good to see you again. And to see you _happy_ .”

“It’s wonderful to see you again as well.”

“We’re all eager to see how the week pans out. I hear Abraham has several things planned.” She turned and smiled at Aziraphale, who’s heart was fit to burst. “Do you like the room? It’s been redone, I had them clean things up and change the bedding, something a bit warmer, since it’s much cooler here than it is in the south right now.”

“Actually,” Crowley said, “Aziraphale’s things have been relocated. No idea why.” He folded his arms over his chest and raised a brow, looking so _petulant_ Aziraphale nearly shoved him back into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Oh, well that’s not right.”

“_That_ was me,” Gabriel said quickly. “I just thought it would be more _appropriate_ if Aziraphale stayed in his rooms—”

“Nonsense.” Their mother waved a hand between them, brushing off the sentiment. “Have someone move them here immediately. Aziraphale is King Anthony’s companion, and I assume he would rather stay with him. Isn’t that right?” She turned back to them. Aziraphale nodded. “Good. Gabriel, take care of it.”

An order from their mother didn’t invite argument. Gabriel nodded, bowed to Crowley, and disappeared down the hall.

“Well,” she said, “I should go rest a bit more.”

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“Just a headache, my love. You’ll have drinks with us, before dinner? I understand Abraham would like to borrow your king for a bit.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his cheeks going a bit pink. “I will.”

“Good.” She paused, her hand twitching by her side. She raised it, and patted his cheek, bowed her head to Crowley, and headed back toward her room.

Aziraphale wrung his hands until a few servants brought back his things, set them inside, and fled.

“Angel.” Crowley reached out for him, and Aziraphale went. “Let’s get some rest,” he said, and brought him inside before closing the door. Once he’d turned the lock, Crowley asked, “Are you alright?”

Aziraphale glanced around the room. It _was_ lovely, and he’d been here before. It probably wouldn’t do to tell Crowley that, so he smiled and said, “Yes. I’m just worried about her.”

Crowley nodded and undid the pin in his hair, setting it down on a writing desk. He went over and kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “Would you like to rest?”

“Oh, I _would_,” Aziraphale said, and let Crowley begin to undress him. He had daydreamed about stumbling into this room and making love to Crowley with the curtains drawn back, northern sun spilling through the windows, but he was suddenly _bone_ tired, and it was easy to let his clothes fall away and slide between cool sheets. Crowley undressed and did the same, pressing against his back and kissing his shoulder.

“Are you pleased? To be back?” Aziraphale hummed. Crowley laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“It’s good to see the castle, and to see my mother.”

Crowley kissed his neck. “Your brother’s a prick.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Gabriel likes things done a certain way. I’m _quite_ sure they expected me to just sequester myself to my rooms until you were finished.”

“I wouldn’t allow it.”

“No,” Aziraphale murmured, “I know you wouldn’t.”

He closed his eyes, but his sleep was fitful. While he’d been in this room many times, he’d never _slept_ here, and he was quite used to his bed in the south by now. And Crowley couldn't stay still — he was hardly an afternoon sleeper. He rose and bathed, puttered around in a pair of trousers and no shirt until a servant girl arrived to tell him someone would fetch him for drinks with the king in an hour. When Aziraphale looked up toward the girl, he caught only a glance of her face, beet red at the sight of the shirtless southern king as she fled down the hall.

“Will you stop terrorizing the staff?”

“Ah, you’re awake. What should I wear, I don’t want to look like a _heel._”

“Just something you like,” Aziraphale said, and rolled over to watch Crowley pick through his things. “I’ll have someone come and put everything away later.”

“No, no, I’ll take care of that.” Crowley lifted one of his old shirts Aziraphale had repaired and embroidered. “This will do.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale watched as Crowley set the shirt aside and crossed the room to the bed. He sat on the edge and carded his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said softly. “I’m just looking at you.” He moved so he was straddling Aziraphale’s waist, caging him between his arms. “Thinking about how _lucky_ I am.”

“_Are_ you? Lucky how?”

Crowley laughed and kissed his cheek. “Oh, you’re just fishing for compliments.”

“I am.” Aziraphale cupped his cheek. “So compliment me.”

Crowley’s eyes were _adoring_, and Aziraphale drank it in. “So handsome for me, every day you make sure you look your best.”

“Yes, and you toss everything on the floor.”

“Ah, but I can’t help myself. I need to get at what’s _beneath_ all the stitching and thread.” Crowley kissed his other cheek, then his nose and his brow. “You came to me and I didn’t expect to feel this much. I don’t know if I’ll _ever_ be able to repay you.”

Aziraphale sighed. “But you have,” he said. “Every day you do.” He pulled Crowley in for a kiss, deepening it with every swipe of his tongue, every turn of his head. “Consider yourself debt free, your Majesty.”

Crowley groaned, dropping his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “_Aziraphale_.”

“Will you touch me? There’s no time to do anything else, but just...just your _hands_, my love. I’d move _mountains_ for them—” He gasped as Crowley pushed down the sheets and the cool hair hit his cock. It was half hard from Crowley’s attentions already, and ready for him when Crowley reached down and wrapped his slender fingers around it. “_Yes_.”

“Tonight,” Crowley whispered, mouth pressed to the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “Tonight I’ll take you, like you asked.”

“Please, my love, _please_—” Aziraphale thrust into Crowley’s hand. He hadn’t come in some days, and this was precisely what he needed. Crowley laughed and began working him in earnest. He slid down and put his mouth over the tip of Aziraphale’s cock and sucked. Aziraphale cried out, thrusting up. “More, _more_,” he pleaded. “Crowley, please—”

Crowley pulled off and, fully settled between his legs, kissed Aziraphale’s thigh. “Is it good then?” he asked lazily, resting his head on Aziraphale’s leg.

“It’s good, it’s perfect, of course it is.”

“And would you like to come, angel?”

“Yes, _oh_ yes, I’d like to come.”

“How _badly_ would you like to come?”

“Crowley don’t _tease_—”

“Oh, but that’s me, isn’t it?” Crowley laughed and kissed Aziraphale’s thigh again, nipping at him. “You’re beautiful like this, begging for me, laid out. And in your own homeland, too. In another king’s castle, _begging_ for my mouth.” He rose up, licking the underside of Aziraphale’s cock. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, _yes!_”

“Because it might be his castle, and you may have been born here, but we both _know_ don’t we, angel?” Aziraphale glanced down, nodding. “We know what you are.”

“_Crowley_—”

“Say it,” Crowley hissed. “Say it out loud.”

“Oh, _yours!_” Aziraphale shouted, and threw his head back as he arched off the bed. “I’m yours, I’m yours, _I’m yours_—”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right. And you’re going to come for me, aren’t you? You’re going to come exactly when I ask you.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, _yes_, whenever you want, just _say it_—”

“Come,” Crowley said. Aziraphale did. He felt it torn out of him and he _wailed_ and writhed in Crowley’s grasp, gasping for air. When he was finished, he thought perhaps his vision had gone black, but he’d only screwed his eyes shut while he shouted down the walls. Aziraphale was distantly aware that Crowley was cleaning him with his tongue, murmuring how _good_ he tasted, until they were nose to nose, and Crowley slid his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth and moaned.

“Gorgeous,” he said. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Crowley…”

“You know I’m yours,” Crowley said hoarsely. “Don’t you?” Aziraphale nodded. “It couldn’t be anyone else. It could _never_ be anyone else, I’m yours and yours alone.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I know, my love.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek, then pulled back. “Crowley, you’re trembling. Are you alright?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes,” he said, and buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Was it too much?”

“...Perhaps.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, my dear. My _dear_, it’s alright.” He held him close and kissed his shoulder.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have gotten us both...both of us worked up. So worked up, before dinner,” Crowley managed.

“I don’t mind. And if you need me to remind you every day we’re here, then I will.” Aziraphale moved so Crowley could see his face. “I am yours, and _only_ yours. No matter what anyone here says, no matter what stories you hear, or what you are led to believe, I _need_ you to know. I would trade every memory of the past away if it meant you never doubted how much I…” Aziraphale swallowed. “Well. So long as you _know_ that _I_ know where I belong.”

“With me?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, my love. With you.” Aziraphale held him close again. “With you and _only_ you.”

* * *

Crowley left to have drinks with Abraham, and Aziraphale puttered around, dressing himself and putting their clothes away, tidying up the bed and drawing the curtains before he left to join his family before dinner. He wasn’t sure if he was really excited to see them, or excited for them to see _him._ How much he’d changed.

Their family had always had a wing in the castle, ever since Aziraphale’s mother and father had first been invited to court. His father had died when Aziraphale was a baby, and he’d never known him. None of his siblings really remembered the man, and so he had faded from their minds in a sad sort of way. There was a single portrait of him, but it lived in their mother’s bedroom. She never took another suitor.

The decision for Aziraphale and his siblings to train in the arts and become companions and consorts of the court had been made long before Aziraphale was old enough to understand what it meant, but it left them with a very privileged position in Golden Court, something his mother had always wanted for them. Aziraphale’s position as a companion to a _king_ was the most coveted, but as it had been to Crowley, and in the south of all places, he doubted his siblings had thought much of it.

He wondered what they thought _now._

“Aziraphale.” His mother ushered him in once he’d found their old salon, and gave him his customary seat. “We were just talking about you.”

The words dropped like a stone. “...Were you?”

“Yes!” His mother sat next to him. “About your beautiful clothes.”

“Wouldn’t say I’d call them beautiful,” Michael said, sipping her wine. “What _are_ you wearing, Aziraphale?”

“This is a southern design. The tailors there are quite talented.”

“It looks a bit drab,” Uriel said. “But I suppose it suits you, now that you’re the southern king’s companion.”

Gabriel leaned forward. “I’ll be honest, Aziraphale. No one was expecting you to come _with_ King Anthony.”

Aziraphale frowned. “And why is that?”

“Because,” Michael said. She hadn’t even made eye contact with him yet, but that wasn’t unlike her. “We sent you there to move the trade deal along. Not to become his emotional support whore.”

“_Michael!_” Their mother _snapped_. “Apologize to your brother.”

She finally looked at Aziraphale. “Sorry.”

Frankly, he thought she meant it. Michael had never been overtly cruel to him, but his position as more than just Crowley’s consort was bound to draw attention to their entire family. Michael had likely suffered some loss of attention because of it. Aziraphale hadn’t considered this, but of course it was too late.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I’ll be sure to keep a low profile.”

“You rolled out of the carriage with him,” said Michael. “I think the chances of you keeping a low profile are slim to none, dear brother.” She sighed and straightened her skirts. “I’m all out of sorts, and I’ve been rude. I apologize again, Aziraphale. It’s obvious King Anthony trusts you. Tell us more about the south. Mother said you did quite a bit of traveling.”

Aziraphale relaxed. Michael could cut, but she hardly ever meant it. It was usually Gabriel or Sandalphon he had to watch out for. They’d been merciless bullies, Sandalphon especially, when he was younger. But neither seemed interested in tales of the south. They moved toward the bar together and mixed a few more drinks. Everyone else listened as Aziraphale spoke of sailing and lemon trees, apricot picking in the spring and roses that grew for miles.

“I’ve always wanted to sail,” Michael said. Aziraphale was surprised. But then, he had never really known much about his sister. She was guarded, and kept her business and desires to herself.

“Come south in the spring,” Aziraphale said, “and I’ll take you. All of you.”

Uriel’s face lit up. “Really? King Anthony would entertain us?”

“Of course he would.”

Aziraphale’s mother touched his hand. He stared down at it. “That’s kind of you, my dear. And kind of him. I’m glad he’s come north, it will prove everyone wrong. I was more than happy to learn the rumors about Anthony were simply that. You always speak so highly of him.”

“He’s a good man,” Aziraphale said, “and I’m lucky to know him.”

“So he _can’t_ turn into a snake,” Uriel said.

“Have you ever known anyone who could?” Aziraphale asked.

Uriel shrugged. “Never thought about it. I suppose there’s a first for everything.”

“Including our family visiting the south,” Gabriel said. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, why not?” Michael asked. “We could all use a trip. After winter, when we’ve all had our fill of the bloody cold and ice.” She made a face. “Can’t stand the winters here. Are they better in the south?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Along the very southern coast, Crowley says. We’re going in a few months, to see the whale migration.” He prattled on for a bit about all the other things he’d seen, the different things he’d eaten and the things that grew in the south. By the time dinner was called, Michael was convinced she no longer belonged in the north, while Gabriel continued to protest that traveling would disrupt their spring and summer schedules.

“Ignore him,” Michael said dryly. “He’s just bothered you’re back at all.”

Aziraphale nodded as they walked into the hall. He caught Crowley’s eye as he did, shaking his head when Crowley gestured to the seat beside him.

“Go,” his mother whispered, her hand on his back, “and sit with your _king_.”

Startled, Aziraphale looked at her, then, for _some_ reason, at Gabriel, who was appalled. Aziraphale nodded, and went to sit beside Crowley, who had risen to pull out his chair.

“Thank you,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

Crowley sat beside him, putting a warm hand over Aziraphale’s. “How did it go?” he asked quietly.

“...Better than I thought.”

“I’m glad.”

“And yours?”

Crowley shrugged. “Better than I thought,” he said, and smiled.

Aziraphale relaxed, leaned back in his chair, and prepared for the first course.

* * *

The king was talking about a hunting trip, but Aziraphale wasn’t listening to that. He was instead listening in on the romantic troubles of one Lady Wolstead, a very kind, middle-aged woman who had lost her husband to flu some years ago. She was apparently on the edge of being engaged to three different men, but was, of course, not at court, as she wasn’t feeling well.

“Which we all know,” said Lady Peverell, “means she _knows_ how much she’s embarrassed herself. Being as old as she is and behaving the way she has.”

“Lady Wolstead is hardly forty,” someone said, “and _very_ lonely. Is she not allowed a bit of fun?”

“With _three men?_”

“Sounds like fun to me,” Crowley said in Aziraphale’s ear, pulling him from the conversation. “What am I eating?” he asked, gesturing at his plate.

“Goose.”

“_Wild_ goose,” Abraham said. “We hunt it in the fall. Do you go hunting, Anthony?”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t. Never have, it wasn’t my uncle’s sport. And we don’t hunt much in the south I’m afraid, for food or sport.”

“Really?” Queen Rachel took a delicate bite of her potatoes.

“Well, we _fish_, but we do that as sustainably as we can. It’s not a game.”

“How interesting,” Abraham said. “Well, we’d be honored if you’d join us tomorrow. You _will_ need to be up bright and early, I don’t know if you’re want to after your trip.”

“Was it very long and dull?” Rachel asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “It had its moments.”

Aziraphale fought very hard not to choke on his wine.

“But I’d love to come,” Crowley said. “Name the time, I’ll be there.”

“Before sunrise.”

“Perfect,” he said, and Aziraphale struggled not to laugh. Crowley was an early riser, certainly, but Aziraphale had tried, exactly _once_, to rouse him before sunrise to go watch it come up over the sea during the summer, and he’d received such a nasty hiss in response he thought Crowley really _had_ turned into a serpent in the middle of the night.

He maintained his composure, and watched as the two kings agreed that someone would come and wake them for the morning hunt.

“And you’ll join us Aziraphale, won’t you?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course,” he said, “if that won’t offend.”

“Nonsense. Remember how much we needed you when Prince Joseph was here? Isaac, do you remember—”

“Nearly shot himself in the foot with an arrow,” Isaac said. “We’re all lucky Aziraphale was there that day. Stopped him from killing us off!” He and his father laughed and recounted the story. Aziraphale stared very hard at his plate.

After dinner, they returned to their room and Aziraphale stepped out onto the balcony to look down at the garden. Most of it was dormant, but he could see the fall vegetables growing in their places, and the apple trees bowed down with fruit.

Crowley stepped out and stood behind him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and kissing his neck.

“Who is Prince Joseph?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, _please._”

“No, no, I’m just curious. Apparently you stopped him from committing _murder_.”

“That’s hardly true.” Aziraphale leaned back. “He is Queen Esther’s brother. The eastern queen?” Crowley nodded. “She inherited the throne when her father died, that’s how eastern succession works. Joseph wouldn’t have been happy as king anyway. He’s very...very _soft._”

“Soft?”

“Abraham and his sons like to embody a certain kind of royalty. They want people to see them as strong and powerful. Which, I suppose they _are._ But that means the men of the court tend to behave the same way, and when one _doesn’t_, things can be difficult. Joseph didn’t want to go hunting, he wanted to stay here and read, or work on his music. But he was close to Thomas, Abraham’s youngest son, and Thomas convinced him to go, so he wouldn’t be alone. When he was offered a shot at the boar for that night’s feast, Joseph tried to take it. I only made sure he didn’t hurt himself. No one was ever in any danger.

“After that, he kept to his rooms. He was embarrassed, everyone at court was laughing at him.”

“You kept him company.”

Aziraphale nodded. “He’s a very talented artist, and a skilled chess player. Trounced me nearly every time. He only ever wanted to be left alone, I think. Thomas wasn’t allowed to spend so much time with him, Abraham doesn’t want soft sons.”

Crowley sighed. “I wanted to be jealous, you know. Now I’m just sad.”

“Joseph is a happy young man, if that’s any consolation. Esther is a good queen, and she takes care of her brother. When the court laughed at him, she defended him.”

“It fell on deaf ears, I assume.”

“It did. They haven’t been back, for what it’s worth. Not together. Esther was here last year, when Rebecca was married.” Aziraphale sighed and turned around in Crowley’s arms. “I told you, you mustn’t listen to things you hear. I had a very specific duty in this court. I did that duty to the best of my abilities. Sometimes I...sometimes there were men who—”

Crowley kissed him. “It’s your past, angel. If it shapes you, it shapes you, but I won’t let it shape _us._”

“Then you can’t be _jealous_,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t ask me about Joseph or Richard or Mark—”

“Alright, _alright_,” Crowley said, stepping back, hands raised in surrender. “I hardly need a list of names.”

“But that’s just it,” Aziraphale said. “I could give you a list of names, but what would it matter? After everything, after _today?_ I told you, Crowley, I am yours, of course I’m yours.”

Crowled sighed, looking at him fondly. He reached up and stroked Aziraphale’s cheek. “You may say that as much as you’d like, but I know I could never really possess you. You’re too much yourself.”

Aziraphale laughed, rushing in to kiss him. “And I could never possess you. But _being_ yours...it’s not really the same as possessing, is it?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean...I’m yours because I choose to be. You’re _mine_ because you choose to be. To possess is to have someone against their will and I...well I have gone willingly, since the very start.”

“I beg to differ on my own behalf,” Crowley murmured.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Because you are, in fact, a _thief_.”

“A thief!” Aziraphale gave him a gentle push, and Crowley laughed, stumbling back into the room. “Explain _that_, your Majesty.”

“Oh, gladly, angel. You see, before you, my heart was my own.” They walked in a careful circle around one another now, and this, _this_ was a game Aziraphale enjoyed. “Everything was my own. My time and my country and my heart. But you! You arrived in my home and stole the attention of my people. You started stealing away my time, bit by bit. And then, _and then!_” Crowley lunged, grabbing Aziraphale by the waist and pinning him to the bed. “You stole me.”

Aziraphale looked up at him. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

“I’m not,” Crowley said. “Because I needed to be stolen. Away from myself, my duties—”

“Your advisors detest me.”

“Let them,” Crowley snapped. “Let them hate you, let them berate me for leaving meetings and arriving late, I don’t care. I’m a better king, with you by my side.” He pushed the hair from Aziraphale’s forehead. “I told you, months ago. I need you. And if part of that means being stolen by you, then I go happily.” Crowley kissed him. “My angel,” he murmured, “my thief.”

Aziraphale sighed, tipping his head back and letting Crowley press hot kisses down his throat. Crowley looked up.

“Take me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Won’t you?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, my love.”

Crowley stood, pulling off the belt of his tunic and throwing it on the floor. Aziraphale watched him hungrily. He began to undress while Crowley sat on the bed and backed up toward the pillows. Aziraphale turned down the lamps of the room and went to the windows, drawing the curtains back. The moon was nearly full, filling the room with blue light.

“Come here,” Crowley said, and reached out. Aziraphale took his hand and climbed into bed, settling between Crowley’s legs. He kissed him, kissed his jaw and neck and nipped at his collar. “Oh, _angel._”

Aziraphale sighed, stroking his cock to put himself at ease. Crowley’s legs fell open for him, and he reached for the oil beside the bed and slicked his fingers. “You could come like this,” he said, “couldn’t you? Just from my fingers?” Crowley nodded. “But I know you want more, my dear. Don’t you?”

“I’m a king,” Crowley said, laughing. “I _always_ want more.”

“Then you’re lucky I’m here to give it to you.” Aziraphale kissed his sternum, then one of his nipples, laving his tongue over it and feeling it stiffen. “Perfect.”

“Won’t you just—”

Aziraphale slipped two of the fingers of his other hand into Crowley’s mouth. “Hush,” he said, and Crowley moaned, sucking on Aziraphale’s fingers, swirling his tongue over the tips of them, same as when he had Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth. Aziraphale shuddered, touched Crowley’s hip and the underside of his cock before finally reaching down and circling his middle finger around Crowley’s hole.

Crowley moaned louder around Aziraphale’s fingers, so he gave him another, sliding them in and out of his mouth in time with the finger between his cheeks. Crowley rocked against him in the same rhythm, the soft sucking sounds filling the room as his sighed and took another of Aziraphale’s fingers.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale cooed, “that’s it. So _good_ for me, aren’t you?” Crowley nodded. Aziraphale pressed another finger inside him. “You feel good on my fingers, and you’ll feel even better on my cock, won’t you?” He sighed, continuing to work Crowley open. When Crowley had four fingers in his mouth, Aziraphale added a third to the others, and began thrusting in earnest. “Wonderful,” he said. “Perfect.”

Crowley moaned louder, and he finally pulled the fingers from his mouth to let his head fall back as he cried out, “_Aziraphale!_”

“Yes, my love?”

“I w-want—” he panted, “I want your—”

“I know you do, but do you think you’re ready?”

“_Yes_. Just fuck me.”

Aziraphale nodded and pulled out. “Alright,” he said, “but I’d like you on your knees.”

“What?” Crowley looked at him. Aziraphale realized he’d never asked Crowley to do this before, and Crowley had never asked him, either. But he blinked, understood, and moved to his hands and knees, rocking back and forth as Aziraphale slicked his cock and positioned himself behind him. He teased him, sliding his cock between his cheeks a few times, pressing at his hole and pulling back. “Angel, come _on_—”

“When I’m ready.”

“How much more _ready_ do you need to be?” Crowley snapped, and Aziraphale laughed.

“You really are a spoiled brat,” he murmured fondly, and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s back before he began to press his cock into him.

Crowley moaned, long and low, and, when Aziraphale was completely inside him, said, “I see.”

“Do you like it this way?”

“_Yes_.”

“Good. Because I’m going to make you scream,” Aziraphale said, before pulling out and back thrusting in.

Crowley cried out. It wasn’t as rough as Aziraphale could be, or ever had been, but fucking Crowley like this made everything different, for them both, and he knew Crowley was bound to feel things he hadn’t before. Aziraphale took it easy for a few strokes, rocking his hips and setting a steady pace. Crowley moaned with every thrust, his head dropping down, panting into the pillow.

“_Aziraphale, Aziraphale_—”

“So good,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Harder,” Crowley said, lifting his head and looking over his shoulder.

Aziraphale nodded, and he pulled out completely before sheathing himself in Crowley again. Crowley threw his head back and _wailed_, and Aziraphale took the chance to reach forward and take a fistful of his hair — and _pull._

“Oh _fuck!_” Crowley gasped. “Again, again—”

Aziraphale moaned, fucking into him hard and pulling his hair. “Like this?”

“Yes!”

“You like that.”

“Yes, _yes_, I fucking like it, do it again, do it harder—”

Aziraphale laughed. “Well, who am I to refuse my king.”

Crowley gasped. “S-say it. Say it again.”

“Hm?”

His tongue darted out, there was spit dripping down his chin and when Aziraphale reached around he felt Crowley’s cock leaking against his chest. “Call me that again,” Crowley said, “y-your—”

“Oh.” Aziraphale thrust inside him. “My king?”

“_Yes!_”

He laughed. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? You’re my king. I stole you,” he said, “and that means I get to keep you.”

“And him, the other, _oh_ Aziraphale, _Aziraphale_.” Crowley struggled in Aziraphale’s grip, but not hard enough to get away. “It’s only me, say it’s only me.”

“I told you today—”

“I need to hear it, I _need you_ to say it.”

Aziraphale pressed himself into Crowley completely, and pulled him back, upright, into his arms. He dragged his teeth along Crowley’s ear and said, “_My king_—”

Crowley grabbed his own cock, curled his fist around it and began stroking. “Again.”

Aziraphale moaned. “Oh, my king, my king, _my king_,” he said. “Will you come for me? Make a beautiful mess of yourself?”

“Fill me up,” Crowley managed. “Use me, come inside me—”

“I can do that, of course.” Aziraphale pushed Crowley back down and pulled out, ignoring his whine when he was empty, and rolled Crowley to his back. He took his legs and shoved them back before filling him again, and now, _now_ he fucked him without abandon, fucked Crowley purely for his own benefit. Aziraphale came with a shout, spilling into him, thrusting until he had nothing left.

Below him, Crowley fucked his own fist, stroke after stroke until finally, _finally_, he came, his seed spilling over his hand and onto his chest, making a perfect mess. Aziraphale leaned down and pulled his tongue through it, still inside Crowley, enjoying the soft ache every time Crowley clenched around him. He wasn’t willing to let go, not yet, but Crowley whimpered beneath him and Aziraphale knew he needed to stop.

He pulled out with a wet sound, and reached down, feeling his own come sliding out of Crowley’s hole. “Would you—”

Crowley nodded. “_Yes._”

Aziraphale nodded and lifted his fingers to Crowley’s mouth, feeding him. Crowley moaned around him. Aziraphale gave him as much as he could before he rolled to his back with a long sigh.

“Good _lord_.”

Crowley laughed. “Too much for you, angel?”

“You’re greedy,” he said gently, “and I love it.”

“I like what you have to offer,” Crowley said. He made no effort to move, and so they laid in their own mess for a bit, talking gently about the day, about what Abraham had to say when he and Crowley had shared a drink before dinner.

Aziraphale finally rose, climbing over Crowley and getting something to clean them with. He pulled the sheets over them and kissed Crowley’s forehead. “So you like him?”

“Abraham? Yes, he seems decent. I can see what you meant earlier, him not wanting to appear soft. I suppose that’s a running theme up here.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Men in the north want to be _men._”

“Bah. I’m twice the man most of them are.”

“Don’t I know it,” Aziraphale said, and laughed when Crowley shoved his face away. “It’s true!”

“‘Course it’s true,” Crowley said, and kissed him. “So this hunting trip tomorrow.”

Aziraphale sighed. “They hunt the large boars in the fall, but it’s dangerous because they’re mating. Still, it will make for a fine feast tomorrow night.”

“And that’s...it,” Crowley said. “It’s just a game.”

“Sort of.”

“Other animals—”

“Men here hunt for sport, yes,” Aziraphale said, before Crowley could spiral. “Is it something you don’t like? I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before, I didn’t think Abraham would invite you, honestly.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just not sure how I feel about...about hunting as a _game._ But I’ll be respectful,” he said quickly. “I won’t embarrass you.”

“My dear, you could never.”

Crowley laughed. “Ha!” He burrowed deeper against Aziraphale. “Watch me.”

* * *

“It is too _bloody_ early,” Crowley muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was dressed in some spare hunting gear Abraham had. “You look ridiculous. We both do.”

Aziraphale looked down at his own clothes. “These are in fashion.”

“Well they look awful.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re worse than Michael.”

“I think I’d like to drink with Michael,” Crowley muttered, glancing down at the bow in his hands. “I have _no_ clue how to use this, I was rubbish at archery as a boy.”

“It’s alright, you won’t have to do anything. Abraham will—”

“Anthony!” Abraham had finally joined them in the little hunting lodge on the edge of the castle grounds. “Good, they got you kitted out. I was worried.”

“Aziraphale assisted.”

“Knew he’d be an asset. You remember my son Issac?” Crowley nodded. “We’ve brought Lord Nicholas and my cousin Tobias along, he arrived late last night.”

“And I’d _much_ rather be in bed,” Tobias muttered, but he seemed ready all the same.

“Nonsense!” Abraham clapped Crowley on the shoulder. “Walk with me, we’ll enjoy ourselves.”

Crowley spared a look over his shoulder for Aziraphale, who could only laugh. Crowley had never had friends, and suddenly found himself with a new one — whether he liked it or not.

“Father likes him,” Issac said quietly. He sounded tired. “Talked about him after dinner nonstop. If we’re not careful, we’ll wind up your guests and King Anthony won’t be able to say a word against it.”

“I don’t think he’d mind,” Aziraphale said. “He’d be glad to show off the south.”

“What’s so great about a big pile of _rocks?_” Nicholas asked.

Issac shook his head. “No, King Anthony says it’s not that way. Aziraphale, too. Orchards, they said, for miles. And a beautiful sea to sail and fish in. I’ve never gone fishing, or been on a proper boat. I think I’d like it.”

“You’ll be welcome any time,” Aziraphale said, and they walked on.

Positions changed. When they heard sounds in the bushes, they stopped, and Crowley dropped back.

“What’s the point of this again?”

“Stop it.”

“Hold,” Abraham said, raising a closed fist. He listened for a moment, then nodded. “We’ll track east.”

Aziraphale sighed. “The royal family’s been doing this for centuries, it’s in their blood. You might learn something. Patience for starters,” he mumbled.

“I heard that.”

“Good, you were meant to.”

It wasn’t a bad morning for a hunt. The chill wasn’t unbearable, and Aziraphale enjoyed the changing colors of the leaves. Issac seemed to be enjoying having his father to himself, and Crowley paid the northern countryside more than one compliment, which was quite the honor, Aziraphale felt. Tobias walked beside them, asking quiet questions about the south.

Lord Nicholas, however, was growing bored, and antsy. When they heard movement in some bushes, the man took a knee, pulled back an arrow, and let it fly.

“Nicholas!” Abraham grabbed his shoulder. “We don’t know what that is!”

“It’s something to hit!” Nicholas said, and traipsed through the leaves to see what he’d killed. “Ah, nevermind. Just a doe.”

Abraham sighed. “That was irresponsible, and a waste of our time.”

“My apologies, sire.” Nicholas bowed deeply, but he knew he would be excluded from the next hunt the same moment Aziraphale did. Still, he stayed a few feet behind the king as they continued on.

After a few paces, Aziraphale realized Crowley wasn’t beside him and, when he turned back, found him kneeling beside the deer.

“Crowley?”

“...She’s still alive,” Crowley said. He touched the bloody wound in her throat. “Shock must have knocked her over.”

“S’real shame,” Tobias said.

Crowley nodded. “Yes, it is.” He ran a hand over her neck. “We don’t have deer in the south. I haven’t seen one since…” He trailed off. “She won’t make it.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “She won’t.”

“Anthony!” Abraham was walking back. “What’s the hold up?”

Aziraphale turned to him. “The doe, sire. His Majesty was just remarking on what a waste it is.”

“Just a doe,” Nicholas said, looking at the ground. He sniffed.

Isaac shrugged. “King Anthony makes a good point, father. Perhaps the staff would enjoy it.”

Abraham nodded. “A good suggestion. We’ll mark the place and have someone fetch it when we come back.” He sighed. “I hope Lord Nicholas hasn’t offended you, Anthony.”

Crowley straightened. “No,” he said. “He hasn’t.”

“Good. Walk with me, then. I think we’re very close.”

Crowley moved up beside Abraham and Isaac. Behind them, Aziraphale pulled the dagger from his belt and slit the creature’s throat. When he stood, Crowley was watching him.

Aziraphale wiped the blood from his hands.

It was Isaac, later, who shot the boar. A big one that pleased his father. “We’ll eat well tonight,” he said, clapping his son on the shoulder.

Crowley hadn’t spoken since Nicholas had shot the doe. Aziraphale fell into step beside him and reached for his hand, but Crowley pulled away. “Not now,” he murmured, and Aziraphale nodded.

They splintered at the castle, and Aziraphale followed Crowley up the stairs to their room and shut the door behind them. “Crowley—”

“I’m tired,” Crowley said, “and I’m really not in the mood to talk.”

“I’m _sorry._ I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it would—”

“It’s not your fault,” Crowley snapped, in a way that didn’t make Aziraphale feel blameless at all. “I’ll have a bath and a lie-down. I’ll feel better after that.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course, my dear. Let me ring for you.” He went and had one of the servants draw a bath, while Crowley stood on the balcony and watched the garden below.

* * *

When Crowley woke, it was just in time for dinner, and it was as if the hunting trip hadn’t happened at all.

“You look handsome, angel,” he said, coming behind Aziraphale where he stood in front of a full length mirror. “I’ve told you before I think southern tailoring suits you, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale turned and faced him. He was torn between wanting to ask about the hunting trip, ask if Crowley was feeling alright, and simply falling back into their usual way of being together. Snug and complimentary, with just enough of a bite to tease. He opened his mouth to say _you don’t have to pretend for me, you never have to pretend when it’s us_, but Crowley’s expression was soft, and his smile reached his eyes.

So Aziraphale said, “You have, my love. But I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”

Crowley laughed and kissed him. “Come on,” he said, “we wouldn’t want to be late for dinner.” He hooked Aziraphale’s arm in his and they walked down to the great hall together. Aziraphale let thoughts of the hunt slip away. He was on the arm of a handsome king, special guests of the royal family, and about to enjoy a place at the head table while the rest of the court would look on in jealousy.

He could deal with whatever troubles came their way later.

Their dinner was largely uneventful. Aziraphale noted with a bit of smug satisfaction that Lord Nicholas had been relegated to a table further away from the king as he sat down, and pointed this out to Crowley under his breath.

“What does it matter?” Crowley asked. “I said I wasn’t offended.”

“Yes, but Abraham must have had someone put him there.”

Crowley frowned. “It’s a seat, Aziraphale. That’s all.”

“It’s not—” Aziraphale sighed. “Of course. You’re right.” He looked down at the bowl one of the servants had set in front of him.

Crowley poked it with his spoon. “What is it?”

“Pumpkin soup.”

“Ah.”

When the boar meat was served, Crowley looked at his plate uneasily, but he didn’t say anything and he ate every bit. When the king recounted the events of the hunt, his cheeks went pink, but he looked surprised when Abraham said, “Anthony made a very good point this morning. Perhaps we should think differently about our hunts in the future.”

“How do you mean?” Thomas asked. He was Abraham’s youngest, and Aziraphale’s favorite. He’d never been especially passionate about hunting either.

“I mean what we keep and what we don’t. Anthony, when your people fish, none of it goes to waste, am I right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Even the bone?”

“We usually make fish stock with the bones and head,” Crowley said. “My chef in Virgil is an excellent cook, I’ve known her since I was a boy. She makes the most delicious soups from it I’ve ever had.”

Abraham nodded. “Not a bit goes to waste. I think the south has things to teach us yet.” He lifted his glass and raised it to Crowley, who bowed his head.

Aziraphale touched his elbow. “See?”

Crowley made a soft noise and continued eating.

Dinner ended and Abraham invited the two of them back to his salon for drinks with a few of the lords. Aziraphale sat beside Crowley on one of the sofas, sipping from a glass of whiskey.

“Aziraphale.” Thomas approached them and pulled up a chair. “It’s been too long.”

“It has, your Highness. How are your studies?”

“Oh, they’re fine. My music teacher can hardly hold a candle to you, and I haven’t _touched_ a blade since you left.”

Crowley leaned forward. “A blade?”

“Yes!” Thomas said. “Aziraphale is a _master_ swordsman.”

“Oh, I’d hardly say _master_.”

“No, sir, you’re quite talented.”

Crowley glanced at him. “Is that so?”

“Well, I’m no military captain, but I’ve held my own against a few.”

“Ha!” Thomas drained his glass. “_More_ than a few. Aziraphale bested my father’s guard captain two years ago in a minute flat. It was terribly embarrassing for Jacob, though he was a good sport about it. I’m sure he’d like a rematch, but I’d like to spar with you first. Tomorrow morning?” he asked, looking hopeful.

Aziraphale nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

“Excellent!” Thomas stood and shouted across the room, “_He said yes, father!_”

“Wonderful!” Abraham clapped, his cheeks flushed from drink. “We’re in for a treat, I should think.”

Thomas turned back, said goodnight, and left. Aziraphale leaned back against the sofa, staring into his glass.

“Master swordsman,” Crowley said, taking a sip. “What a talent.”

“It’s hardly that.”

“Oh, come now, don’t sell yourself short. I can’t wait to see you trounce the boy. Though I _do_ like him.” He finished his drink and stood. “Pardon us, your Majesty, but I think I’ll need to retire for the evening. It’s been quite the day.”

“Indeed it has!” Abraham stood up, embraced Crowley, and stepped back. “Thank you for putting up with our northern ways.”

Crowley looked shell-shocked. Aziraphale thought he was going to have to escort him out of the room, but he seemed to remember himself and said, “I’m sure I’ll be saying the same when you bring your family south next summer.”

It was Abraham’s turn to look surprised. “...You’ll have us?”

“Of course,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could tell he meant it.

Abraham grinned. “Excellent. _Excellent._ I can’t _wait _to rub this in Samuel’s face next time we meet. Goodnight, Anthony. Goodnight, Aziraphale. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He bowed his head and went back to his seat.

In the hall, Aziraphale asked, “Did he mean Samuel, one of his _advisors?_”

Crowley nodded. “Apparently none of them believed I’d agree to a negotiation. Abraham staked quite a bit of his reputation on my saying yes. He’s been a little smug lately, he told me. Even my coming here was debated.”

“They assumed you wouldn’t.”

“Of course, and you know why. You also know I almost didn’t.” They reached the top of the stairs and Crowley sighed. “I have you to thank for all this, angel.” He reached out, taking Aziraphale’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and drew him in for a kiss.

_All this_ weighed heavy on Aziraphale’s mind as they went to bed. Because _all this_ included the parts he knew Crowley detested, the parts Crowley didn’t have the patience for. He rolled over and counted the freckles on Crowley’s back, illuminated in the moonlight.

_Don’t let me have failed you, my love. Whatever you do, don’t let me let you down._

* * *

“You’re a _bloody_ liar, Aziraphale.” Thomas put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. “_A bit out of practice._ Father, did you see that?”

“I did, my boy.”

“An absolutely fraud.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I hardly wanted to disappoint you,” he said, and extended a hand. “It was a fair fight, Thomas. Your stance needs improvement, but your grip is excellent.”

“Oh, just like you to critique me _and_ pay me a compliment, all in the same breath.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Would I be much of a teacher if I didn’t?” He passed his sword off to one of the staff and went to sit by Crowley at one of the tables in the garden.

“Impressive, angel.”

“Did you think so?”

Crowley nodded, sipping his tea. “I _do_ wonder what other talents you’re hiding from me.”

“Are you disappointed? It hardly seemed appropriate to arrive in the south with a sword on my belt and practice my lunges every morning. I didn’t want to appear threatening.”

“I think if you had, I may have taken you to bed much sooner.” He shifted in his seat and placed his cup in his lap, but Aziraphale could see he was hiding his burgeoning arousal.

“_Really?_” Aziraphale asked quietly. “You enjoyed _that?_”

Crowley scowled. “It’s hardly my fault, isn’t it? It’s you! With all your...your _thrusting_, and your twisting about and dodging here and there.” He glanced over. “I’m just _saying_, if you’d like to give a certain king a private lesson, he wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Am I to believe you, the man who rode to the border with his armies, can’t use a sword?”

“Oh, I’m more than capable, but I lack your..._artistry._”

Aziraphale laughed. “Good _lord_, Crowley.” But he reached out to take his hand and was thrilled when Crowley reached back.

From the other side of the garden, Gabriel’s expression soured, while Michael’s lit up, and she came over to sit beside them.

“You two are quite the pair.”

“Are we causing trouble?” Crowley asked, finally placing his teacup and saucer on the table again.

“Most certainly. Gabriel thinks you’re being terribly inappropriate, and Lady Merideth thinks it’s quite strange our family would send its youngest to keep company with a _king._ She’s been talking mother’s ear off about it all morning.” She whipped her fan out, even though there was certainly a chill in the air. “You’ve made quite a splash.”

Aziraphale laughed. “How terribly untoward of us.”

“Well, what’s more untoward is Lord Nicholas’s behavior.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He’ll tell anyone who will listen the southern king is a coward of the hunt. Of course, it’s Lord Nicholas, and you _saw_ where the king sat him last night.”

“How many people are even listening to him these days?” Aziraphale wondered, and Michael laughed.

“Precisely. Tobias has told everyone _else_ that the hunt was good fun, and he’s eager to get an invitation to go south as well. Although, he’ll have to bring his _wife._”

“Eleanor? I thought she’d left.”

“She was _supposed_ to, of course, and mother thought he and I might be a good match, but she’s very likely still around. I think she might be pregnant.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “What a _nightmare_ that’s bound to be.”

Crowley suddenly stood. “I’m going inside.”

Aziraphale looked up at him. “Are you? Well I’ll go—”

“No. Stay here, with your sister. It’s obvious you have some catching up to do, and I’d like to write to Madame Tracy and have some things prepared ahead of our return.”

“...Crowley.”

“Enjoy yourself, angel.” He put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, went to say goodbye to Abraham, and headed inside.

Michael raised a brow. “Well _that_ was odd,” she said and snapped her fingers to have two hot ciders brought to their table. She regaled Aziraphale with tales of her visit to Queen Esther’s court in the summer, and Aziraphale listened, of course, because he couldn’t help himself, but his mind drifted inside to Crowley, who was certainly sulking somewhere, having grown tired of their inane chatter.

How did he explain it was simply...part of him? The gossiping and the information sharing? It’s what made the Golden Court what it was. And the Golden Court would always be a part of Aziraphale, no matter how far south he went.

Lunch was served and Crowley didn’t come down, even when Aziraphale sent someone to fetch him. No one commented, but Michael did lean over and say, “I’ll distract everyone, if you’d like to go inside.”

“Yes, please.”

She nodded, rose, and asked a servant for a harp to be brought outside. When she started playing, and everyone was looking her way, Aziraphale slipped out of the garden and into the castle.

Crowley was in their room, the balcony doors decidedly _shut_ against the noise outside, while he scribbled furiously on a piece of paper before crumpling it and chucking it into a basket under the writing desk. “_Stupid_—”

“Crowley.”

He jumped, leaping up from his chair and obscuring his papers with his hand. “Aziraphale.”

“...What are you doing up here?”

“I’m...I’m writing…” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, which he’d unpinned. It ran wild and loose over his shoulders. “I’m trying to write to Warlock, about the north. But I can’t...I’m trying to be _kind_, but I’m in a terrible mood and I feel like I’ve nothing good to say.”

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear.”

“I had to come up here, angel. I couldn’t...the _gossip_,” he said. “It’s horrendous. How does anyone here deal with it?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s simply part of our language.”

“Well I despise it,” Crowley spat. “And I despise that you take part.”

“...Oh.”

“What’s the _point_ of it? What does it matter where Lord Nicholas sat last night, or whether Tobias’s wife will have a child? Why should rumor spread that you were so unimportant that they let you come live with a _monster_ like me on whatever rocky hellscape I apparently rule?”

“Crowley, I’m _sorry_—”

“It’s all smoke and mirrors, Aziraphale! Everyone talks, but no one _speaks_, they say nothing of import and when they have your attention the only thing they can manage is rumors and lies.” He sat in one of the chairs and put his face in his hands. “None of it feels _real_, and that’s what I can’t stand.”

Aziraphale went and sat in a chair beside him, reaching for his hand. “That’s the way of the court, my love. I warned you—”

“Ha! _Warned_ me. You didn’t warn me about _that._” He gestured toward the balcony doors. “You didn’t warn me that I’d have to smile my way through this entire thing, pretending to be interested in whatever _vapid_ noble came my way next. You _never_ said—”

“I said it would cut. I said it was ruthless. You’re a grown man and a _king_. What _else_ was I supposed to say?”

Crowley stood. “That it would consume us! That it would swallow us both and try and tear us apart!”

“Is that what you feel? That we’re being separated?”

“Yes! Yes, I feel that way.”

“How?”

“Because!” Crowley groaned and pulled at his hair. “Because you _fit_ here, so well. You just...you took to it all again, like you’d never left, and now how am I supposed to get you back? How am I supposed to get back _my _Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale scowled “You _don’t_. Because I am not _yours_, not like that. I told you the other night, I go with you willingly. I belong with you _willingly_, but there isn’t a version of me that belongs here, and a version of me that belongs with you. I am an entire being, Crowley. There are parts of me formed by the south now, yes, and formed by you. There are parts of me that can never go back to the way things were. I’ve been shaped by you, _reformed_ by you, and I am _pleased_ by that.

“But there are parts of me that are very much this place, and I can no more change those than I can change the fact that I _love you_.”

Crowley went stone-still. They both did. Down below, Michael finished her performance, and everyone began to clap.

“...You—”

“Forget I said anything.” Aziraphale turned away.

“No. No, say it again.”

“Crowley, I won’t play this game anymore.”

Crowley reached for him, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close. “You said you _love me._ I want you to say it again.”

Aziraphale stared into his eyes, golden and flushed with tears. “...No.”

“Should I beg? Is that what you want from me?”

“Stop it.” Aziraphale moved from his grasp.

“You can’t just _say that_—”

“I can say what I want! If you despise this place then you despise me.”

Crowley scowled. “That isn’t _fair._ Don’t say you love me and then shove an ultimatum down my throat! I will hate this court until the day I die, but it will be a cold day in _hell_ before I despise _you_.”

“This is my _home_—”

“And you are mine!” Crowley shouted. “I came here to make you happy, to prove to you and myself and this whole bloody country that I am _different_ than my uncle, but now I can see why he never left the south. Now I understand.”

“And what do you understand?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley laughed. “That I will never belong in any other world but my own. I will never fit. There are no places outside the south where I belong. And, perhaps, no one I truly belong with. My uncle was alone, all his life. Maybe there’s something to be said for that.”

Aziraphale felt like someone had snapped his neck. His voice was blocked, his body couldn’t _move._

“I’ll stay until tomorrow, when we sign the bloody document. But I’m leaving as soon as it’s over. You may stay here or come with me.” He looked at Aziraphale. “But I don’t care what you do.”

“That’s a lie,” Aziraphale croaked.

“Maybe so, But it’s the lie I have to tell myself. Obviously you belong here. Obviously, you can be here and be happy, without me.”

“_Crowley._”

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Crowley murmured, and collapsed in his chair again. “It was a mistake.”

Aziraphale stared. “Coward,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I called you a _coward_, because that’s what you are. You only want to be different from your uncle until it really matters, and then you’re happy to let yourself become him.”

Crowley frowned. “...Take that _back._”

“No.”

He stood. “You take that back, you _take it_—”

“Leave,” Aziraphale said. “Go home and never come back. I’ll stay here, I have my family. If what I am and where I come from disgusts you so much, then I’ll let you go.” He went to the door.

“Where are you going?”

Aziraphale turned to him. “I have a room here, as I’ve always had. If you’d like to say anything to me before you leave, that’s where I’ll be.”

“Aziraphale—”

He opened the door, stepped into the hall, and closed it tight behind him, holding it shut.

“_Aziraphale, come back inside!_”

“No.”

“_Aziraphale, please. Please, let’s talk. Let’s just talk!_”

Aziraphale said nothing, holding the door shut for a few minutes until he heard Crowley step away. He let go of the handles with a gasp, and fled.

* * *

His room had been his sanctuary when he was younger, and as soon as Aziraphale stepped inside and shut the door behind him, a wash of comfort and relief flooded him. “_Oh._” He rested against the door, closed his eyes, and breathed.

He felt _sick._ What he’d said, what he’d _done_ — it was unforgivable. If Crowley had been willing to love him back before, he would certainly feel different now. With a groan, Aziraphale pitched forward, and flopped rather dramatically onto his bed.

“Stupid, _stupid_.” He covered his face with his hands and tried to relax his breathing.

He’d told Crowley he _loved_ him. Of course he’d been feeling it, of course it was something he knew about himself, but he could hardly expect it to be something they _discussed_. Crowley was a king, _his_ king, now, and Aziraphale was the man who’d been sent south to placate him. Love was never supposed to be a part of this, as much as they’d admitted to adoring and caring for one another — love was supposed to stay buried. Never spoken out loud.

“_Aziraphale?_”

_Mother._ “Go away!” he called, but she had long since mastered picking his lock, and the door swung open. Aziraphale sat up. “This is a violation of my _privacy._”

“So sorry,” she said coolly, and breezed in. “Wine?”

“No.”

“Whiskey then.” She went out to the salon and came back a moment later with two glasses. She sat in one of the chairs in his room and waited.

She could wait a very long time. Aziraphale knew her well.

With a groan, he sat up and went over to throw himself in the chair beside her. He took the glass and drank from it with a shudder.

“So.” She took a sip. Stone cold drinker, his mother. Nothing fazed her. “You’ve made some mistakes.”

“I _didn’t_—”

“I knew Michael wasn’t playing because she wanted to, she _hates_ performing. As soon as she was done I looked for you and you were gone, so I came up here to make sure you were alright. I didn’t hear everything, but I certainly heard you two shouting down the walls.”

“And you assumed I’d come here.”

“Aziraphale.” She looked at him like he was very young again. “I raised you. I know you better than anyone in the world.”

He sighed. “I suppose.”

“I also raised you to be a gentleman of this _court_, and I expect better behavior where you and your king are concerned.”

Aziraphale drained his glass. “But that’s just it! That’s the problem! You raised me to be part of the court and Crowley _hates_ the court!”

“Well of course he does. He’s a man who was raised in absolute solitude. What did you expect him to think when he arrived here?”

“I don’t _know_, I guess I thought…I thought he could handle it.”

“Ha!” She drained her own glass, then poured for them both again. “Abraham himself can hardly handle it, and he was raised here, same as you. This court is a disaster, Aziraphale. It doesn’t accept, it consumes. It wants to destroy because then it will have something to talk about the next day. I raised you to survive it, because it was the only way to make you strong.”

“Yes,” he muttered, “and _now_ look at me.”

“And _now_ look at you,” she said. “You are talented and handsome. You walk into the room with your head held high and there is no amount of gossip or petty talk that can wear you down. You went south without argument and what did you do? You won the heart of a _king. _This court did not break you down, it _built you up_. You are _better_ than it. Being a part of it should be an honor to you, something you’re proud of.”

“Crowley doesn’t think so.”

“That’s because he has different priorities. He is solitary and pragmatic. He sees a dying doe and he wants to ease its suffering because in it, he recognizes himself.”

“...What?”

His mother glanced at him. “Had the thought not occurred to you?”

“I...no.”

“Anthony suffered. Perhaps the reason he struggles with the perceptions of the court is because he fought so hard to be loved and could never succeed. And then you come along, and what do you do?”

“...I love him.”

“Like _that._ Is it any wonder he can’t really trust it, or the world you come from? Had you not thought to explain it to him better? To help him see?”

Aziraphale sputtered. “But _he said_—”

“Yes, I’m sure he said something incredibly stupid. And I’m _sure_ he owes you an explanation and an apology.” She sighed. “You have managed something rare and precious, my dear. It is too _good_ to let your pride get in the way.”

“I am _not_—”

She looked at him. He felt like a child trapped in her gaze.

“You are a son of the Golden Court, Aziraphale. You _are_ proud, and there is nothing wrong with that.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Go,” she said, “and help make this right.”

Aziraphale nodded, tossed back his drink, and ran out of the room.

* * *

He ran and ran and _ran_, right into Gabriel who swore after him while Michael and Uriel pitched over in a fit of laughter. He ran down the hall and skidded on the stones outside his and Crowley’s room and threw open the door.

Crowley was pacing, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. He looked up. “_Aziraphale._”

Aziraphale shut the door, turned the lock, and crossed the room in three great strides. He grabbed Crowley’s face in his hands and _kissed_ him. “I love you,” he said, and kissed him again.

“_Angel_.” Crowley held him, kissed him back, and laughed. “I love you, too,” he said. “I’m so stupid. I’m _so_ stupid.”

“No, it’s me, I was a fool, I never should have—”

“Of course you carry your home with you. I can’t carry mine and expect you to be different—”

“You’re not your uncle, you are your _own king_—”

“I despise this court, but I _adore you_ and how strong you are in spite of it.”

“No.” Aziraphale shushed him. “_Because_ of it. Every moment I spent here only made me better for you. Because I can handle anything they throw at me, and I will weather this place for the both of us. That’s my promise to you.”

“My love—”

Aziraphale kissed him again. “I will never make you come here again. But if we must, just know that I will be stronger for you. Stronger than ever.”

Crowley laughed, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale’s. “But you are already,” he said. “You are _so _strong. You came to a country you didn’t know, met a man you presumably feared, and still. You broke down my walls. You opened yourself to me and let me in and I...I _love you_ for it. Aziraphale, I love you. I can’t...I feel it so strongly, I feel it so _much_—” He swallowed. “It scared me. _Terrified me._”

“I know.”

“How can one heart feel so _much_ for one person? It doesn’t make sense! It floored me, knocked me to the ground and here you were just...letting me. Loving me back. And that didn’t make sense either, because _look at me._ There’s nothing about me that was put together right.”

Aziraphale pushed the hair from his forehead. “My love, it’s alright. I don’t need anything like that. I don’t need you to be perfect. Lord knows I hardly am.”

“In my head you were.”

Aziraphale kissed him. “I don’t want to be perfect,” he said. “I only want to be with you.”

“We fight too much.”

“That’s alright.”

Crowley swallowed. “I’m bitter. I wear too much black.”

“I think it’s fetching.”

“In the winter I complain constantly about the cold. You’ll hate me.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Are we calling out our flaws for what they are? Because I’ve been stealing the sheets from you for months.”

“I noticed.”

“I need things to have their place, to be set just _so._ I like my tea three different ways and it all depends on my _mood_—”

Crowley pointed. “_I knew it!_”

Aziraphale embraced him. “And I will always love you,” he said. “No matter how cross you are with the world around us. No matter how cold the sea you swim in. I will love you through it all.”

Crowley lifted his hands to Aziraphale’s face. “Promise.”

“I promise.”

“_Swear._”

Aziraphale swallowed and, in a _fit_, lowered himself to his knees. Crowley staggered back a step, but Aziraphale held his hands against his cheeks, leaning over and kissing one palm.

“I swear,” he said, “that I will love you all your days, and all the days beyond.”

“_Aziraphale._”

“Will you love me in return?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes. _Yes_,” he said. He bent low and kissed Aziraphale. “I will love you,” he murmured. “For all your days, and all the days beyond.”

* * *

Crowley signed the trade deal. It was a symbolic gesture — the provisions of the deal were already being carried out, but the document was grand and beautiful, and he took an ancient quill and scrawled his name at the bottom. He even let King Abraham hug him.

The apple trees in the castle garden were heavy with fruit. Crowley’s reputation as a king who went out with the pickers had preceded him, but it was quite a surprise when Abraham did the same. Aziraphale filled his basket and walked with his mother and Michael. Gabriel pouted along the fringes of the crowd. Michael was pleased.

“You know,” Crowley said that evening, as they sat at the king’s table and held hands, right where anyone could see, “I think I’d like to come back here.”

Aziraphale looked at him. “You don’t have to, my love.”

“No, no, I think we should. You’ll need to visit your family again, and I’ve made a new friend.” He gestured down the table, where Abraham was drinking happily. “I’d like to know him better.”

“_Really._”

“Oh, don’t be so surprised.”

“Well, as your _first friend_, I’m very happy for you.” Aziraphale kissed him. “And as the man who loves you, I’m proud.”

“_Angel_, you’re going to cause a scandal.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Good. I’d hate for them to have nothing to talk about after we leave,” he said, and leaned in to kiss Crowley again.


	4. winter, and the things we survive

Winter descended upon the castle, crisp angles of cold that stole the breath and numbed the hands. Aziraphale woke one morning and found the castle grounds and the capital blanketed by snow and ice, and couldn’t shake the feeling that an entirely new world had just opened up to him.

Inside, Aziraphale had no complaints. Most evenings found him reclining on a large sofa in front of the fireplace in his and Crowley’s rooms, a book in his hand and a king’s head resting in his lap. He idly carded his finger through auburn curls while Crowley murmured things in response to whatever Aziraphale was reading. Sometimes they drank tea and talked about the day, and other times they simply fell asleep, waking only when the fire had died down, and the room had grown cold.

Making love was an excuse to get warm, an excuse to touch, a reason to laugh. Crowley, buried inside Aziraphale, shivering more with pleasure than with cold, pressed his mouth to Aziraphale’s ear and said, _I love you, I love you, I love you_, and Aziraphale begged and pleaded and said it back.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

They passed the first few weeks of winter this way, fall and all the other months behind them, the rest of their lives spreading out ahead.

There were plans for Warlock to visit in the spring, but for now he remained at home, writing the both of them every week, detailing his many and prolonged sufferings — _My art teacher is a right dullard, and my piano teacher doesn’t have Aziraphale’s patience or talent. Don’t make me stay here a moment longer, I’m going to simply die from boredom._

“I’m glad he seems to have taken on your penchant for the dramatic my dear,” Aziraphale said, setting his letter to the side of his breakfast plate. “We _should_ have him here as soon as the snow thaws.”

Crowley made a noise, flipping through his own correspondence, looking concerned.

“...Crowley.”

“There’s trouble,” he said, “in the west.”

“_Again?_”

“Bah.” Crowley stood, and handed the letter over to Aziraphale.

_King David has installed more soldiers along the border, but made no move to attack. The farmers are getting anxious, and with the new cattle stock, they’re worried their stables may be razed in the coming weeks._

Aziraphale read it through once, then again, more carefully this time.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

Crowley shrugged. “I’m not sure. David’s always been...tetchy. Gets irritated easily, wants things done his way or not at all. He and my uncle didn’t get on.”

“Your uncle?" Aziraphale ran some quick calculations in his head. “How _old_ is he?”

“Seventies? He has a son, but he keeps a firm grip on power. If he and my uncle hadn’t been so short-sighted, they could have been allies. Friends, even.” He shook his head. “David and I don’t see eye to eye on most things. I think he’s too hard, he thinks I’m weak.”

“Well, his generals didn’t. They’re half the reason the north was so frightened of you.”

Crowley nodded. “And I’m sure when those generals came back empty handed, he had each of them sacked in turn.”

“Empty handed…”

“Land, angel. He wants my western farms, and now that we’ve cattle from the north, I’m sure he wants that, too.” Crowley shook his head, as if he could shake off the struggles of political machinations and the troubles they brought with them.

“Seems foolish.”

Crowley laughed. “King David isn’t a _fool_ so much as he’s an opportunist. Winter is the perfect time to strike. Farmers and ranchers dormant, the capital not producing as much as it normally does.” He shook his head. “No, this situation I need to monitor carefully.”

Aziraphale set the letter down and went to stand by him. “...Will you go?”

Crowley sighed and turned to him. He smiled and reached out to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. “No,” he said, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.” They kissed and Aziraphale liked to imagine that, for now, he could brush away Crowley’s concerns, soothe his troubled mind with teeth and tongue.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, “does it seem a bit chilly in here to you?”

Aziraphale pulled back and rolled his eyes before gently pushing Crowley towards the bed. “Oh, just get undressed already,” he said, and Crowley fell into the sheets laughing, pulling Aziraphale with him.

* * *

Virgil’s market was empty of its usual seasonal produce, but winter was an excellent time for certain fish. Aziraphale convinced Crowley to walk down with him, with instructions from the chef to bring back the biggest squid they could find.

“Aziraphale, look at this!” Crowley was bent down over a box, protected from the winds and chill of the morning by a large blanket. When he straightened up, he was holding a black kitten.

“Ay, your Majesty. My girl was out on the prowl when she shouldn’t have been. Don’t have the room for ‘em all.” A woman was sitting by the box, knitting a very long scarf next her stall. Aziraphale picked up a hat and sweater and gave her coin for it. “You can have that one, sire. If you’d like.”

Crowley held it close to his chest. “Male or female?”

“Male. So he’ll want to wander.”

“Well, that’s nothing we can’t handle, is it?” Crowley said softly. He glanced at Aziraphale. “Warlock would love it.”

“He won’t be here until _spring._”

“Yeah, but this one’s here _now._”

The woman sitting by the box covered her mouth with her knitting. Aziraphale sighed.

“Yes, alright.”

“_Lovely._ How much?”

“Oh, your Majesty, nothing at all.”

“No, no, I insist. Aziraphale, pay the woman a fair sum.” Crowley turned away, lifting the kitten up and grinning at it. “Aren’t you lovely? Won’t you make a wonderful present for my godson?”

Aziraphale gave her a decent amount of coin and ran to catch up with Crowley. “They’re an auspicious sign, you know. Black cats.”

Crowley, tucking the cat under his arm, fixed Aziraphale with a look. “In the north, perhaps, but not here. Here, they’re a rarity. When a cat gives birth to a black kitten, that’s good luck. Having one in your home means the same. Besides, it’s all just superstition anyway, on both sides. A cat is a cat, Aziraphale. And _this_ one is absolutely precious. _Look at him._”

Aziraphale sighed as they went to look at squid before heading back to the castle.

* * *

Aziraphale had learned during the summer that he was a great source of frustration to Crowley’s advisors. The fact that he answered the king’s correspondence, or advised him on certain matters was a topic of discussion at least once a week. By mid-November, they had discussed it no less than fifteen times. Crowley typically brushed off their concerns — he was king and he could make his own choices. They typically backed off. But as tensions began to rise in the west, and as December began, they discussed it more often, to the point where Crowley returned from each meeting so frustrated he could barely speak for an hour.

“I’ve put a moratorium on discussions regarding you,” he said one evening, after Aziraphale had coaxed him into a bath. “I’m absolutely done with it.”

Aziraphale sat on a low stool behind Crowley’s head, running oil-slick fingers through his curls. “Am I such a nuisance?”

“Hardly. They just don’t like the idea I’d go to anyone else for advice or guidance but them.” Crowley sighed contentedly. “I _do_ like this part, angel.”

“Done yet?”

“Hardly. Don’t stop.”

Aziraphale hummed in response and continued, moving his hands up and deeper into Crowley’s hair, massaging his scalp. Crowley groaned in response, shifting in the water. “Good?” Aziraphale asked.

“No idea what I’d do without you,” Crowley murmured.

“Cut it all off, probably.”

“Never.”

When Crowley had finished, Aziraphale made him a cup of tea and they sat on the sofa in front of the fire while Aziraphale read him a letter from Abraham.

“He’s concerned about the west as well. He’s asking if you need help.”

“I gathered.” Crowley sipped his tea before setting it aside. “The north and south have no official military treaty. We’ve never gone to war before, and we’ve certainly never assisted one another. Help from Abraham would be..._unprecedented._”

“Everything with regards to your relationship with Abraham is unprecedented at this point,” Aziraphale said, and put the letter on the table in front of them. “I think he likes it.”

“He said something to that effect.” Crowley angled himself toward Aziraphale and pulled him close. Aziraphale gladly went, leaning against Crowley’s chest and closing his eyes. “And your family? How are they?”

“Mother says Michael is eager to visit. Gabriel is mostly pretending our trip didn’t happen.”

“Stuffy old tosser, isn’t he?”

“Gabriel likes things to be a certain way,” Aziraphale said, remembering the meticulous tidiness of his brother’s room, the way he wore his clothes as a boy, and his peculiar taste in food. “Tradition is important to him.”

“And it’s not to everyone else?”

“I think it’s less that it’s important and more that we all just assumed everything would remain the same. Call it what you’d like—”

“Naivete,” Crowley muttered.

“Well _certainly._ But we were comfortable. We were living a way we enjoyed. I think if I’d never come here, we’d still be that way.”

Crowley glanced down at him. “So what you’re saying is I changed your life.”

Aziraphale swatted at him. “There’s no need to be so self-aggrandizing, my dear. Of _course_ you changed my life.”

Crowley laughed. “Just as well, angel.” He kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head. “You changed mine, too.”

* * *

When another letter came at breakfast one morning, Crowley excused himself and was gone until late. Aziraphale stood from his reading chair when he returned and went to him, immediately working his hands against the muscles of Crowley’s back and shoulders, feeling the tension he held there after hours of being hunched over a map.

“Has it gotten worse?”

“Yes.” Such a simple word dropped like a stone at their feet, and Aziraphale froze. “Angel…”

“When do you leave?”

Crowley sighed. “In two days,” he said, turning to gather Aziraphale in his arms.

Aziraphale pushed back “Two _days!_ That’s not enough time to...time for you to…”

Crowley nodded. “I know,” he said, and kissed Aziraphale’s brow. “But this is what must be done.”

“_Must be done_,” Aziraphale snapped, and turned away from him. “I don’t see why you should go. You’re their _king_, for God’s sake, you can’t just—” He stopped. The words soured on his tongue, and he sighed, closing his eyes. “You’re their _king_,” he said. “And that’s why you’ll go.”

Crowley came behind him, kissing the back of his neck and running his hands over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “They need me. And I need to be there for them.”

“Of course.”

“Please try to understand.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Am I not allowed to be selfish? May I not grieve the fact that you’re dashing off to the battlefield and I’ve no idea when or _if_ you’ll return?” He turned around, looking Crowley in the eyes. “I love you,” he said. “And you love _me._”

“I do.”

“Then let me be angry. Just for a night. I swear, tomorrow, I will not say a word against your decision. But...tonight.”

Crowley nodded. “I understand.” He took Aziraphale in his arms. “Let me take you to bed,” he murmured, and Aziraphale agreed.

* * *

There was a great deal to pack, Aziraphale learned, before a king went off the war.

The first was his sword, which he had unearthed from a chest in the cellar, and brought to the room.

“I thought, considering your expert swordsmanship, you might like to see it.” Crowley pushed open the lid and pulled out a longsword. He drew it from its ornate sheath and weighed it in his hands before handing it to Aziraphale. “Here.”

Aziraphale took it. It was much heavier than the swords he had trained with as a boy, but the balance was the same. He stood back and took a few practice swings while Crowley looked on admiringly.

“You’d make a good soldier,” he said. Aziraphale quickly handed it back. The chest also housed a sturdy shield and a set of dark plate armor, which Crowley closed the lid on as soon as they were done with the sword.

“Is that—”

“It was my uncle’s. I wore it only once.”

“And it fits—”

“Unfortunately yes,” Crowley said, and had two of the guards outside his room carry the chest downstairs into the hall. “I have to leave you.” He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “I need to meet with my advisor’s before I go.”

“Alright. I’m walking down to the market, do you need anything?”

“Fish for Ghost.”

“Crowley, he’s a _menace_.”

“He’s a _gift._”

“A gift you do not intend to give!”

“Terribly sorry!” he called, rushing from the room. “No time to discuss!”

Aziraphale huffed. It would be nice, he thought, to actually practice with his sword, now that he’d had a taste. He’d brought a few of his from home when they’d come back, but had found no adequate space to use them. But instead, he grabbed his coat, put on his boots, and set out for the market.

There was some chatter about the king leaving for the border. A few people asked him when he walked past, but Aziraphale could only tell them that Crowley would be leaving the next day.

Aziraphale stopped by the bookshop to pick up a few things and chat with the youngs. “I wonder if there’ll be a call for men,” Mrs. Young said, and glanced up towards the cafe. There were plenty of young and able bodied men who would likely be called to fight. “Anyone in the city would gladly go to war for the king.”

“I can’t say that it will come to that,” Aziraphale said, trying to reassure her. He gave her the coin for the books and said goodbye. Reluctantly, he stopped by the one of the fish stalls in the market and bought a decently sized piece of whitefish to bring up to the little cretin which had taken up residence in his room.

The north had always believed black cats were bad luck. Aziraphale had been raised on the notion, and could only point to Ghost’s increasingly terrible behavior as proof of his superstitions. He’d knocked down three vases the first week he’d been big enough to leap higher than Crowley’s lap, and Crowley had only laughed when he found out.

Aziraphale had one of the kitchen girls debone the fish and cut it up, and he carried it to the room and set it in the cat’s dish, watching him gnaw at smugly.

“I cannot stand you,” he said. “And I’m quite certain that all _this_—” He waved his hand in the general direction of the meeting room, “is your fault.” Aziraphale took off his coat and toed off his boots before going to work on the fire.

He had been back a few hours when Crowley finally returned, carrying a stack of papers and a small box in his hands. Crowley stopped and scratched behind Ghost’s ears before going to sit on the sofa.

“How did it go?” Aziraphale pulled Crowley into his arms, kissing the top of his head. “Anything disastrous happen?”

“Hm?” Crowley closed his eyes.

“Should you rest for a bit?”

“No.” He untangled himself from Aziraphale’s arms and looked at him. “I need to talk to you about something. Something very important.” He stood and reached for Aziraphale’s hand.

“Crowley…”

“Just...come with me.” He led Aziraphale over to a table in the room where he’d set down the papers and the wooden box. “I’m leaving tomorrow. And before I leave, there are certain things I need to insure, in the event that something...something should happen to me.”

“But you—”

“Aziraphale. Please _listen._” Crowley began turning over a few documents. “I’ve discussed this with my advisors, and these are documents drafted by my own hand.” Crowley took a deep breath. “I am naming you prince consort.”

Aziraphale looked at him sharply. “You—”

“I am _naming you_ prince consort,” Crowley said, firmer. “In my absence, you will take on certain responsibilities. You will have control of my finances, control of how money is spent and raised. You will have complete control over any civil disputes brought to your attention while I am away, and you will see to it that the needs of your people are met, however they must be.” He swallowed. “In the event of my death, you will inherit the role of prince regent, and you will advise and teach Warlock until he is crowned king at sixteen.”

“_Sixteen_—”

“You will continue to sponsor his education, insure his family is taken care of, and see to it that he transitions into power as seamlessly as possible. In this position, you have complete and total authority over any rewrites to our constitution, should the need for those arise. You also have complete access to every part of the castle. The summer palace, specifically, will pass onto you after Warlock’s coronation. You may do with it as you see fit.”

Crowley turned to another document. His hand trembled. Aziraphale covered it with his own.

“My love. Prince _consort._”

Crowley laughed, but it was a terrible sound. “I wanted...I wanted to do this properly, you know. Ask you to take on the role when it’d been more than a year. In June, actually.”

“...My birthday.”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Crowley. It’s too _fast._”

Crowley nodded. “I know,” he said, “but I don’t have the luxury of going slow.” He took a pen from the box. “I need you to sign, Aziraphale. I need you to agree to this.”

“It’s too much.”

“For you? A son of the Golden Court?” Crowley squeezed his hand. “I doubt it will be challenge enough for you, quite honestly. You are the most impressive creature I have ever laid eyes on. Do you know this?”

“But this is your kingdom. I’m an outsider—”

“Perhaps,” Crowley agreed, “but this is my decision. You asked me if you could be selfish, well I am asking you the same. Let me be selfish. Let me give you everything. I don’t want anyone else to have it. There is no one in this world I trust with the future of my kingdom more than you, angel.” He cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. “I love you. The world _trembles_ with how much I love you. Can’t you feel it?”

“_All the time._”

“Then do this for me. I promise I will do everything in my power to come back to you. I love you, and you are _everything_. I won’t forget.”

Aziraphale took a trembling breath, and reached for the pen.

He hesitated. “You realize what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“I’m a northern _bauble._ I was sent here for a very specific purpose, and _this _was nowhere in the design.”

Crowley moved the paper closer. “I am _changing _the design.”

Aziraphale gripped the pen tighter. “Kiss me,” he said, and Crowley did. When he pulled back, Aziraphale tore his gaze away, and wrote his name in a furious line across the bottom.

Crowley stamped his seal at the bottom. “As it is written,” he said, “so shall it be.”

* * *

The sky was still dark when Crowley rose to leave the next morning. He shifted slowly awake, and reached out to take Aziraphale in his arms.

“Do you…” He slid his hand down Aziraphale’s side and over his hip.

Aziraphale moved closer. The sheets were warm. Crowley was warm. He didn’t want to _move._

“Just hold me,” Aziraphale said, and buried his face against Crowley’s chest.

“Of course, angel. Of _course._”

If Aziraphale could work miracles, he’d have made that morning last forever. If Aziraphale could do magic, he’d have ended the war with a snap of his fingers. If Aziraphale had any control over their shared fate, he’d have made sure Crowley was perfectly safe, here in this bed, for as long as it took to make things better.

But Aziraphale could do none of those things, And so, eventually, Crowley untangled himself from Aziraphale’s embrace. He got out of bed and lit one of the lamps and began to dress.

“Here,” Aziraphale said, and followed him. “Let me help.” He pulled on his robe and began helping Crowley dress. He pulled his hair back and pinned it so the curls stayed out of his face. He helped wrap him in his coat and helped lace his boots. While he was on his knees, Aziraphale felt the cool tips of Crowley’s fingers against his jaw, and he looked up.

Golden eyes, eyes like a serpent. Would King David’s generals fear him this time, as they did the child who rode through the night to stand with his soldiers against the oncoming slaughter?

“Stand,” Crowley said. Aziraphale did. Crowley took his face in his hands. “I want to give you something.” He kissed Aziraphale’s brow and went to his desk, opening one of the drawers and pulling out a wooden box. Aziraphale came to stand beside him and peered inside.

The box was full of jewelry and other trinkets, things that looked ornamental, and ceremonial. Crowley pulled out a ring and closed the lid. The ring was black obsidian, inlaid with bits of gold, made to look like snakes. He took Aziraphale’s left hand and slipped it onto his ring finger.

“Look at that,” he murmured, “a perfect fit.”

“Crowley…”

“Just wear it,” Crowley said. “I need you to have something.”

“You’ve given me your _kingdom._”

“I know. But, take it from me, it can make you feel alone. And you...you aren’t alone. No matter where I’ve gone, no matter how far away I might be, you aren’t alone, angel.” Crowley held his hand and looked down at the ring. “You have me,” he said, “all of me.”

Aziraphale swallowed and grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his coat and hauled him in, kissing him and kissing him and _kissing him_ until a knock came at the door.

“_They’re ready for you, your majesty._”

“I have to go.”

“_Don’t._”

“Aziraphale, you promised.”

“I take it back,” he whispered. “I’m not strong enough. I’m selfish, I’m weak, I’m _awful_—”

“Hush.” Crowley kissed his forehead. “You’re not. You’re selfless and strong and _good._ And I love you.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “I love you, too.”

“Stay here,” Crowley said.

“I’ll come down—”

“Stay.” Crowley squeezed his shoulders. “You’ve a better view of the road from here. And I’ll watch this window, until I can’t see it. I’ll watch the castle, until it’s nothing but a speck on the horizon.”

They kissed once more —

And Crowley left.

* * *

Aziraphale closed the door to his rooms behind him and sank to the floor.

He had been in a meeting with Crowley’s advisors for _seven hours._ The first two were spent informing Aziraphale of all the duties that _could_ be ascribed to him, but would naturally be taken care of by someone else. Aziraphale fought hard over a few — anything to do with Warlock, with Crowley’s personal finances, and ways of memorializing the king should he pass — but some he simply let go. No sense in arguing about who would make _infrastructure_ decisions.

Aziraphale took a few stabilizing breaths. Ghost came and rubbed himself on Aziraphale’s leg, mewling to be fed.

“Of course my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and pushed himself onto his feet.

He only picked at his own food later, and promised himself not to give Crowley a hard time about post-meeting dinner ever again. Madame Tracy brought him some tea and let him vent.

“Are they _always _like this? Talking over you and making you feel _small?_”

“It’s a tactic,” she said, perched on the arm of the sofa. “When the king was much younger, they did the same thing. But he learned over time, how to get them to do things his way. And he became only tougher. Closed off, you see. They’d make suggestions and he’d simply wave them aside. He came to have that sort of power. Much like his uncle, I suppose.”

Aziraphale glanced at her. “Some of them, they served Lucius.”

“A few. None were especially happy to do so. There were very few loyalists when he died. Lords Hastur and Ligur are the only two I remember. I believe they went east, to some land their families owned. Haven’t heard from them in years. But everyone else, they were pleased with the king died. I think because they thought King Anthony could be manipulated. He was sixteen, on his coronation day.”

“Good lord.”

“It’s no age a boy should become a man, but here we are.” She sighed. “You’ll learn to deal with them. It won’t be the last time our king is called away. Making you prince consort was a wise decision on his part. He’s left the kingdom in good hands, and people trust you.”

“They don’t _know me_,” Aziraphale muttered.

“They will, in time. At least, they’ll know a version of you. Surely you understand that.”

Aziraphale raised a brow. “...Yes,” he said, “I do.”

“You know the king better than anyone by now, I should think. The way he is in front of his people, it’s not the way he is in front of you.”

Aziraphale considered this, while Madame Tracy took his empty tray and bid him goodnight.

That day in the market, when they had bought Ghost, Crowley had been pleasant and happy, but he’d been gently reserved, too. He and Aziraphale hadn’t touched, and Crowley kept his arms behind his back for most of the trip. It left him open to conversation, but ever so slightly unapproachable. His people loved him, and they addressed him as he passed, but they didn’t cross certain lines unless Crowley had crossed those lines first. Aziraphale thought back to the apricot orchard, too. Crowley had a rapport with those people, they knew what could be said and done.

All of it was achingly familiar, the way one could carve out an entire country’s expectations of you with only a look. _This is who I am, and this is how you may see me._

Had they seen Crowley on his knees? Seen him angry and fleeing a room with rage? Seen him with his face in his hands, or his eyes half closed with sleep.

No.

They had never seen him in the early morning, his curls spread out on the pillow, his lips quirked into half a smile, eyes not open. Those moments were Aziraphale’s. Those moments were painfully private. Perhaps that was what had irked Crowley the most. That even in front of him in the Golden Court, Aziraphale fell into his old games of pretend. Be coy for this lord, or brazen for that one. Be drunk for certain parties, but quiet and demure for others.

In this, they were alike. And in this, they were different. But for one another, they could be themselves. In front of each other, they could be _real._

It seemed Aziraphale would have to take a page from Crowley’s book, in dealing with his advisors. He didn’t mind giving up control over some things — Aziraphale had been raised to command ballrooms, not war rooms — but Crowley had left him a great deal of responsibility, and just because Aziraphale didn’t know _how_ to do some things, didn’t mean he couldn’t learn. He’d learned to play the bloody harpsichord, after all.

And he could learn to play Crowley’s advisors just as well.

* * *

The conscription order arrived on the advisor’s table before sunrise. Aziraphale sat in his seat and inhaled sharply at the notice —

_His Majesty King Anthony J. Crowley requests the assistance of every able bodied citizen between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five to assist in the effort to push back western forces from our land. _

Crowley’s signature and seal made it official, and Shadwell was the one who took the notice into the city, and bid anyone who could answer the king’s call. Aziraphale could see the town square from his room. They gathered around the notice in droves, and after, Virgil was an observable bustle of activity — the castle, too.

The younger members of the guard were given permission to leave their posts. The armor was thrown open. Men and women arrived to receive the standard kit — studded leather armor, a longsword and a shield. Aziraphale watched it all with a morbid sort of curiosity. The north had never gone to war when he had lived there. As terrified as it made him, he was interested in deciphering the silent language of the officers who would lead the conscripts west. How did they know, he wondered, who made a better archer than a swordsman? How did they know who would be better suited to the calvary?

A not so small part of him wanted to duck in amongst the conscripts, pick up a sword, and march west. Crowley would be furious with him, and his hair — oh his snow-white, wild curls — would have given him away in an instant.

But what a sight he’d have been, he thought. And how he longed to see Crowley in that dark armor, a sword at his side, shield over his back. War stories were told in the north as a way to elevate ordinary men to heroes. Noble knights with adoring lovers who fell into their arms when they returned from battle.

The sight of a young man, no older than eighteen, being handed a shield he could barely manage, shattered Aziraphale’s romance, and he swallowed down his desires.

Now was not the time, nor would it ever be.

“My lord?”

Aziraphale had been standing just outside the entrance to the castle, watching as weapons were dispersed and tasks assigned. Since the announcement of his title, he had been addressed by the people as _my lord_ and _your highness_. He detested both.

“Yes?” he said, turning to the officer.

“They’re ready. You must...that is, it’s _customary_ for you to read a blessing.”

“A…” On his right, Madame Tracy was prepared with a small book, open to the appropriate page. Aziraphale took it, and read: “God grant to the living grace, the departed rest, the Church, the King, the South and all the world peace and concord. Let the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always. Amen.”

“_Amen_,” they intoned.

It was then that Aziraphale realized — there were far more soldiers here than there should have been. Men and women older than thirty-five stood amongst the fresh young faces. Plenty, Aziraphale realized, who had fought in wars before. Plenty who were not what Crowley and his commanders had asked for, but who had decided to go anyway.

Because they loved their king.

_Because they loved their king._

By afternoon, they had gone, and when Aziraphale went into the city, shops and stalls were empty, signs in the window declaring them closed until peacetime.

* * *

_My love,_

It is only a two weeks since you left, but already I miss you. I miss you most terribly. A great part of me has gone west with you, and will be there when you arrive, will be there when you don your armor, will be there should you ride out to meet the enemy. Know that the part of me you took with you will do its best to remind you that you are loved, that there is a life here waiting for you, and a great love waiting to live out the rest of its days beside you.

And though you are far, you are still close, because when you left, you left a part of yourself with me as well. And so I will care for it and read to it. Remind it how very loved it is so that, when you return, you know what you have meant to me.

I have been taking to my new role as best I can. Meetings with your advisors are, I confess, my least favorite part of the weeks. Hours and hours of endless talk that seems to go nowhere. They are lost without your guidance and I am not falling into the role you imagined for me as quickly as you may have hoped. Still, I am trying. There is nothing I can do or say that stops their bickering, but it does seem that at the end of each meeting, something is decided on. It may take hours to get there, but last week they did manage to agree to fix one of the bridges leading east.

News of your departure had already reached Warlock by the time I thought to write him. He was worried for you, but I reminded him that you were brave, that you’d fought the same enemy before and won. He asked me to send along a good luck charm he made for you. He insists you wear it, and that it will protect you from harm. I think it is a bird skull. I have no idea where he gained a penchant for collecting such things.

Ghost is distraught without you, but he and I have settled into an easy companionship. I won’t blame all of this on him — one blames a missing trinket, or a shredded shoe on a kitten, not an entire war. And besides, I don’t think it would bother him much.

I miss your touch. I miss your voice and your hands, your hair between my fingers and watching you dress every morning. I miss your lips on my neck, your legs around my waist as we make love in the early morning. I miss watching you bathe, watching you comb your hair. I miss the way you say my name when you are trembling apart under my hands, and I miss that clever, clever tongue of yours, and the endless ways it can render me undone.

Be safe, my love. I will be here, waiting. Do not forget how much I love you.

_Yours, Aziraphale _

* * *

_Mother,_

I’m not sure if the news has reached you, but the south and the west are at war. Crowley left for the border two weeks ago, and fighting has already begun. Just this morning, I read a blessing to those conscripted by the king and his commanders to fight for this nation. You should have seen them, mother — more than were called for, older than the age requirement by a decade or more. They love him. They love him with such a fierceness, it’s almost enough to make me jealous.

You may also have heard that Crowley made me prince consort. It’s a formality, a title given to me in case he doesn’t come home, so I can continue educating his heir and make sure the transition of power goes off without a hitch. I’m not sure how qualified I am for a task such as this, but I am doing my best. I spend hours in meetings with his advisors, all of whom absolutely detest me. Unfortunately, they can’t do much more than that, which is a relief.

However, as unprepared as I feel, I am glad to be of use while Crowley is away. I need to be helpful. Without the assignment, I don’t know what I’d do. Taking over these tasks keeps me busy during the day, and wears me down until I am absolutely exhausted come nightfall. Still, I’m honored Crowley would leave me in such a position.

Abraham had spoken to Crowley some weeks ago about aiding him in the war effort. I don’t know if it’s a conversation you feel comfortable having, but if you happen to catch him on a good day, could you ask him? I’m more than certain Crowley and his army are up to the task, but think of the relationship it could strengthen! A northern king helping the south in a time of war? It is unprecedented, mother.

I hope you are feeling well this winter. I hope everyone is well. I long for spring, when the roses may bloom again, and you all might come south to see this place the way I see it.

Give my regards to everyone.

_Your son, Aziraphale_

* * *

_My angel,_

You have no idea what seeing your ghastly, pretentious scrawl did for my spirits this morning. I nearly wept for joy at the sight of it, but I do have a certain reputation to maintain. Still, I went straight for my tent and tore it open. I’ve read your words more than a hundred times now, looking for some sort of meaning I cannot divine. All I can gather from them is your heartache, and all I can give you in return is my own. I miss you, my love. I miss you most horribly.

We have only seen some action. Our first nights were plagued by a snow storm neither army could force their way through, but in the days after, we did come up against King David’s forces. He outnumbered us for a time, but with our new conscripts, we are a more even match.

The ground is too frozen solid to bury our dead, of which there are only a few. Our priests have read the proper rites, I’m told. This matters to some. I’ve no desire to cause a mutiny now.

Please tell Warlock how much I appreciate the charm. I would write to him myself, but communications aren’t going any further than the palace, so I will rely on you to remind him how much he is loved by me, and how proud I am for his burgeoning interest in the skulls of dead things.

Really, angel, did you think I’d taught him nothing before you came along?

How dare you write to me of making love? I share my tent with two of my commanders. I’m hardly in a position to fantasize about your mouth and your lips and your fingers and your hair and your wrists and the softness of your skin and the way you need only look at me and I am halfway to coming undone. You are no angel. You are a tease of the highest degree — and I love you for it.

Aziraphale, whatever reports you receive from here, I need you to know — they are only that. They will be cool and calculating, devoid of any detail beyond the severity of battle and how many were lost. You won’t hear about bravery or cunning. Don’t dwell on it. It’s best if you remember — war is war. It cannot be romanticized. It shouldn’t be. It is a necessary evil, done for the greater good. And when it is over, I will come home, and we will put it aside, and live our days with it as a distant memory for us both.

I love you. I miss you. I will win this and be home by your side, as soon as I am able.

_Yours, Crowley_

* * *

_A report, addressed to his Majesty’s Advisors and the Prince Consort:_

King David’s forces are far stronger than we anticipated. So far, since his first attack, we have sustained 14 casualties. The weather continues to be our worst enemy, however. It delayed the conscripts by three days, and the supplies by another four. We are in desperate need of bandages and will need more rations soon. Please find our entire requisition list attached.

The first battles were hard won. King David’s army is well armed and obviously well trained. They have clearly spent the last several years preparing for battle, preparing to take on our army. Last week, we were the first to pull back, and eventually the storm made it impossible for anyone on either side to see, let alone fight.

Our most recent battle was by far our hardest. We have kept the king away from the majority of the fighting, but we were hard pressed to stop him this time. His majesty rode his horse into the thick of the battle early yesterday morning, and was able to inspire our soldiers to press on, even as the snow came down in waves upon waves. His Majesty took an arrow to the shoulder, but was treated when the western troops pulled back. He is doing well.

_Below, a hastily scrawled list of the dead, and prayer beneath it: _May they go into God’s gracious loving arms, having lived and served their king and country.

* * *

_Aziraphale_,

The war is all the court discusses. I have been asked several times if you’ve any stories to pass on, but I doubt Anthony peddles tales such as those. I doubt even more that you would be moved to pass any on to me. But you know how the court is — they talk highly of war, of all the ways a man can become a hero by it, but you and I both know not a soul in this place would survive it.

I did not know of your titling. These are the sorts of things you write your mother about, Aziraphale. And you must give me more details, your siblings are in complete shock. All except Michael, of course. She didn’t seem so surprised at all.

You being named prince consort of course affords you certain privileges when you return to us. I will make a note of that and make sure King Abraham is aware of your new position. In fact, all the court will be made aware as soon as I am able to fold it as delicately as possible into polite conversation. A mother is allowed to boast, after all.

And speaking of Abraham — I have not had the chance to converse with him privately in some time. The dining room hardly seems the place to discuss politics, and I don’t know if I am best suited to broach the subject with him. You are prince consort of the south now, it would not be entirely inappropriate for you to write him yourself. However, I’m sure old habits die hard. I will try to speak with him soon, though he is not unaware of the war himself, and has asked me, in public, about King Anthony’s well-being. Please let me know what I might tell him, to assuage his concern over his friend.

I am proud of you, my youngest. I am proud of what you’ve become, what you have brought to the south, what you have managed to do in less than a year. You should be honored that Anthony trusts you so, that he would give you so much so soon. It is not only an honor for you, but for our entire family. By extension, his titling of you is an honor passed on to all of the north, though none will appreciate it as you do, I’m sure.

Be safe and be well, my son. Do not become so overtaxed, or so lonely, that you neglect yourself. Make sure your king has a prince consort to come home to.

_Your mother_

* * *

_My love,_

It was wonderful to see a letter from you when I walked into the meeting with your advisors that day. I read it nearly a hundred times, I’m certain, while they bickered over the kind of tents to send west. When I grew tired of it, I snapped and made the bloody decision myself. I don’t think they expected that, but the choice was made and we were able to move on. I do hope I didn’t make the wrong choice. I’ve no experience in choosing tents, but this one seemed well suited to the winter. And I simply couldn’t stand to hear their arguing for another second.

However you might want me to feel about the reports, Crowley, I will react as I see fit. And while I am certainly frustrated and dismayed that you’ve been injured, and I am of course pleased that your continued presence is a source of inspiration to the men and women who have chosen to serve you. Did you not see, my love, how many came? So many more than your conscription order called for. They were ready, Crowley. Ready to follow you. Ready to protect this nation. I am honored to look after it in your stead.

I’ve written to my mother about speaking to Abraham. She noted I could certainly do it myself, but he’s already very aware that you are at war. I wouldn’t be surprised if you received a letter from him yourself sometime soon. Your friendship means a great deal to him, as does the continued relationship between our two nations. Who knows? Perhaps the northern king will ride to the border himself. Oh, the court would never stop talking about it. I’d pray to be a fly on the wall to overhear those discussions.

But, enough of that. I’m sending along a book of poems that I know you adore. These I copied especially for you, in my garish, pretentious script you so adore. This way, when you read them, you read them in my hand and, perhaps, in my voice. I wish that was something I could send along to you as well. My voice and my touch, my lips and my taste. Do you still recall our days in the summer, spent making love out at sea, skin drying in the sun? I miss those days. As soon as you are back, I should think to have you to myself. To remind you of what you have here, so you don’t ever forget.

Please take care of yourself my love. The walk to every meeting is hell, as I wonder if a notice from the west has come to tell me that you are lost. I’m absolutely going to have a heart attack (I’m not) and it will be all your fault (it would be).

I love you. Be safe. Know my adoration for you knows no bounds.

_Yours, Aziraphale_

P.S. If I could, I would send Ghost along so as to give you a bit of luck. I assure you it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s ruined my best boots.

* * *

_A report, addressed to his Majesty’s Advisors and the Prince Consort:_

Our recent battles have taken a noticeable downturn. The king was ill last week, and the troops were rightfully dismayed. We did think, for a few days, we were going to lose him. However, he pulled through quickly enough, and was able to lead them into our most recent fight, which raged nearly all day.

We have seen nothing of King David, however we have seen his commander, Beelzebub. They are ruthless and strategic. If there is any reason why the west’s troops have bested us so many times, it is because of this general. Even the king admits they are a formidable enemy. We are rethinking our strategy, and are blessed in some ways that another storm has come through.

The new tents have stood up well against the snow and wet. We appreciate the supplies. The troops were happy to see letters and gifts from their families.

* * *

_Brother,_

A week ago I received a letter from King Anthony’s advisors asking I recall you to the north as soon as possible. I have no idea if they intend on giving you the message I sent back, but I’ll paraphrase it here: absolutely not. How dare they, men and women who are only allowed an audience with their king because he permits it, write to me behind his back and ask you be recalled until the war is over? You are prince consort, a title we are too happy, as your family, to remind others you now possess.

I don’t know what you’ve done to make them angry, Aziraphale, but if you haven’t noticed they don’t seem to care for you. I doubt there is much they can do about your continued presence. King Anthony’s decree was very official. I suspect they wanted me to lie to you. They fundamentally misunderstand our relationship, I believe.

And besides, even if I had any amount of power over you, as far away as you are, I doubt I could get you to leave the south. To leave your king.

Be careful, Aziraphale. Mother is worried. She wishes you’d write back.

_Your brother, Gabriel_

* * *

_My angel_,

I am fine. I think you should know this, before you jump to any sort of conclusions — I am fine.

Yes, it is true I was ill for some days. I recovered quickly. Yes, before you read the report I am certain is coming, I’ve been injured. Many of us have been. Our most recent battles have been difficult. The numbers of wounded are becoming too great for our healers here to handle. In my uncle’s time, the wounded were not permitted to return to the city. I can’t, in good conscience, keep them here. They’re dying, Aziraphale, and I need your help. You are so clever. More than forty are coming back to you, and they need care.

One of my commanders is dead I saw the arrow that took him I drug him from the field myself I took him into my arms and tried to breathe the life back into him, but now I cannot wash the taste of blood from my mouth God above I miss you I miss you I miss you I am cold and I am — [_a smudge, and a thumbprint_]

I’m fine. I swear I am fine. I need rest. I need it, but it evades me. Sleep is a man I don’t know, it is a food I can’t find, water slipping through my hands. If you were here, I would rest. I could close my eyes and be in your arms. I could be warm, finally, after so many weeks of cold. I could be still. All I do is shiver.

I’m fine, angel. My love, I’m fine I swear it, but this must end. I must end it. All we do is fight and bleed and shiver. Storms are a blessing, but they soak my men and women through to the bone. Is this winter colder than the last? Is all inclement weather made worse in war?

I am fine, Aziraphale, I am fine. Two months without you. Two months, but I have not forgotten the taste of you. I have not forgotten the sound of your laughter. I dreamt you were in my bed. I dreamt I had you, I held you. Say you still love me. Say you won’t leave. Say it, please say it. In the north I was terrified of losing you, terrified you would want to stay.

I love you. I crave your hands in mine. I long for summer.

I long for summer.

I long for summer.

* * *

Aziraphale had read Crowley’s last letter over and over and _over_.

_I long for summer. I long for summer._

The paper was beginning to tear at the folds, and Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything but getting Crowley back to him as soon as possible. But there was no time. Crowley hadn’t responded to his last two letters, the first telling him of Aziraphale’s plans to convert the castle ballroom in a hospital, the second telling him the wounded had arrived.

More were bound for the capital, according to the most recent report. And still, no word from Crowley. The reports said he was in better health, that the morale of their soldiers was holding fast, and they’d had several successful battles.

Aziraphale folded the letter back into his pocket. He was overseeing the addition of a dozen or so beds into the rooms adjoining the ballroom. Crowley’s advisors had not been pleased, but there was nothing they could do to stop Aziraphale from moving forward with the plan. He’d supplied the carpenter with enough wood and nails to get the job done. In the meantime, he’d been frantically writing to his mother to have some sort of help sent from the north.

Three physicians arrived a day after the first group of wounded, and began working quickly to stabilize them. Anathema was working overtime to prepare her tonics and salves. Some days later, two doctors arrived from the east, along with a note from Queen Esther:

_My darling Aziraphale, _

_Joseph has told me all about your struggles, which he has heard in letters from your sister Michael, which apparently has been reported to her by your mother. Your family really must do better at communicating. I’ve sent along two of my best personal physicians, and a great deal of supplies — bandages, herbs, fresh clothes and such. I do hope it’s enough, and I hope to see you and your king next year. _

The panic he’d felt, standing in an empty ballroom two weeks ago, Crowley’s frantic, aching letter in his hands, had largely subsided. But he only knew how Crowley was doing in the incoming war reports, and they were getting sparser on the details. Supplies and soldiers were running thin. Anyone who recovered would need to return as soon as possible. It turned Aziraphale’s stomach.

And he understood what Crowley meant. Sleep began to evade him. It was a friend who had slowly wandered away. Each night he went to bed later and later, thoughts of Crowley, of the war, of the wounded and all the things in Virgil that needed his attention turning over in his mind. Supplies for everyone were running low. He needed to keep his people fed and alive. He needed to —

_Oh_, he thought, as the realization dawned him.

They were his people, too. And not just by decree — certainly Crowley’s decision to make him prince consort made them his responsibility, but now...now they were his people by choice, too.

His choice, and theirs.

When he went into the capital, they greeted him, they gave him little things, cheese and bread — “You’re look a bit thin, your highness.” — or gifts to bring to the men and women in recovery. Mrs. Young, whose husband had gone off along with the other conscripts and not returned, gave him books and coffee.

“You look so tired,” she said. “Aren’t you sleeping?”

Aziraphale smiled and took her gifts. He received a list of the dead whenever the reports came from the west, and he’d promised her he’d be the first to tell her if Arthur Young’s name appeared on it. No news was good news, though, and their list of dead was not so great. Many had been brought back with the wounded, but the ground was frozen solid. Their burials would have to wait until spring.

Back at the castle, Anathema was working tirelessly with the physicians, but she stopped as Aziraphale came into the ballroom, crossing the room to him and putting a hand on his elbow.

“You don’t look well.”

“I’m _fine_,” he said, and hated himself for it.

“I’m serious. Have you used the tonic I gave you? To help you sleep?”

Aziraphale had. But it had given him strange dreams where his mouth tasted like iron and Crowley never came home.

“I don’t need it,” he said instead, and shook her off. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re pale. You look exhausted. Are you eating?”

“Yes,” he said, because it was easier than explaining to her that he was often too tired to eat. “I need to go check on supplies in the kitchens.” Aziraphale pulled away from her.

It was true, he was feeling run down. Something was certainly going around, and Aziraphale’s non-existent wasn’t doing him any favors. But there wasn’t time. When things had calmed, when their makeshift hospital had emptied out, he would rest.

As Aziraphale reached the stairs that led down to the kitchens, he felt a lurch. His whole world seemed to tilt, as if someone had come along and given him a good push. He almost called out, but there was no one around, and the bottom of the stairs was suddenly rushing up to meet him, the cold stone pressing against his cheek. He was distantly aware that he was in pain, that he was struggling very hard to breathe, and one of the kitchen girls was calling for help.

He was also aware, some time later, of Anathema’s unique ability to look both smug and concerned all at once.

* * *

“Fever,” the doctor said, and stepped back from the bed. “And exhaustion. He needs rest and some bloody food.”

Aziraphale tried pushing himself out of bed, but Anathema was much stronger than she looked. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“I’m _fine_—”

“I’m going to beat you senseless,” she said, “and then you _won’t_ be fine. How does that sound?”

Aziraphale looked at her and absolutely believed she was telling the truth. The doctor snorted and gathered his things to go back downstairs. Aziraphale hated that he’d come up to tend to him. There were wounded soldiers downstairs, they needed a doctor more than he did, they needed —

“You’re _talking to yourself_,” Anathema said. She turned and began mixing up a tonic. “And you lied to me.” She pointed to the bottle by the bed. “But it doesn’t matter, I’ll give you something gentler.” She shook her head, muttering under her breath. “Can’t believe this, I just can’t believe—”

“Does he write?”

Anathema stopped. They both knew who Aziraphale was talking about.

“...Yes. When he can.”

“And you write back.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“I look for his name. Every report, I look for his name. I didn’t know what to tell people, at first. I didn’t know how to say, _your daughter is dead, your husband has passed._ I didn’t know what to _say._”

“Why did you have to say it at all?” she asked, turning back to him. She sat at the edge of the bed and began rubbing something warm and minty on his cheeks, then his chest. “Why couldn’t someone else? So many things you’ve been doing, why didn’t you just let someone else do them?”

“If Newt died, would you want it to be someone you don’t know?”

She paused. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Crowley trusted me. He gave me a responsibility. And I’ve done my best to let others step in, I—” He took a trembling breath. “God above, I _miss him._”

“I know you do.”

“It will be over soon,” he murmured, feeling himself begin to drift off.

“I tell myself that every day.”

“It will all be over soon, I’m so sure of it. I’m so…so _sure_ of it…” His eyes were closing, but this time, nothing forced them open. No desperate thoughts of what needed to be done. No images of Crowley, hunched in the snow, carrying bleeding men and women away from the battle.

Instead, he closed his eyes, and he was on a boat. The sailboat, from the spring palace. He saw Crowley pulling himself out of the sea, water dripping from his hair. Aziraphale reached out in his dream and brought him down and kissed him soundly. Waves lapped at the boat. He counted the freckles on Crowley’s cheeks and realized they lined up with the stars.

* * *

“Here you go, love.” Madame Tracy set his breakfast tray on the table. “You’ll be feeling up to the meeting today then, sir?”

“I will, thank you.” He smiled and gestured for her to sit. She did, happily, smoothing out her skirts and watching him stir his oats in the bowl.

“You look a touch better,” she said. “I’m glad you slowed down.”

Aziraphale sighed. “It was a mistake to push myself, I see that now.”

“Well, we’ve all been more than a bit on edge,” she murmured, and looked out the balcony windows, closed against the snow. It was falling gently, _peacefully_, and for some reason, it gave Aziraphale a wonderful feeling. Over the last few weeks, their makeshift hospital had begun to clear out, and Queen Esther’s physicians had returned. Reports from the border were positive, things seemed to be in their favor.

And then the letter from Abraham arrived.

_I’ve spoken with Anthony. A hundred of my men are marching south. Together, we will end this._

Aziraphale burst from the room. He had been advised _not_ to run, but he practically flung himself down the stairs. “_Anathema! Anathema, come look_—”

“This is a _hospital!_” she hissed, cutting him off at the bottom of the stairs. “What are you—”

He shoved the letter into her hands. “He’s coming. He’s marching south as we speak, or he’s already here _who knows_, but Abraham’s soldiers are joining ours, they’re—”

Anathema threw her arms around his neck, and she began to cry.

Aziraphale embraced her. “It’s alright my dear,” he said. “Everything is going to be alright.” That wasn’t a promise he could make, of course. There was no guarantee it would work, no promise that King David’s troops still wouldn’t best both the north and south combined, but…

Was there any harm in hope?

* * *

Three days later, the letter from Crowley came:

_I’m coming home._

* * *

_A report, addressed to his Majesty’s Advisors and the Prince Consort:_

The war is over.

In a turn of events we were not expecting, the king’s request to King Abraham of the north was answered, and a hundred soldiers, led by Abraham himself, marched into our camp just after dawn. The two embraced like old friends. When David’s commander saw the influx of forces, they withdrew for three days. Eventually, Beelzebub walked out to the line dividing the two sides and laid down their sword. King Anthony did the same.

Our soldiers are returning home. The king remains behind with a small battalion and his remaining commander to negotiate the temporary peace treaty. Further talks will be conducted in the spring. His Majesty insists they happen in our own capital. King David has reluctantly agreed.

Let it be known to everyone: the war is over. The war is ended.

Long live the south, and long live our king.

* * *

Aziraphale wanted to sit at the window and watch for Crowley to return. He wanted nothing more than that. However, there were still things to do. Many wounded had come back, and the castle was still housing them. Abraham’s doctors had remained to take care of them, to which Aziraphale was grateful. He finally plucked up the courage and wrote to the king himself, then his mother.

He couldn’t know when Crowley would be back, so he needed to carry on as if it didn’t matter, as if the moment he walked through the castle doors were any other moment.

It was late, when he heard the call go up from the guards posted on the outside of the castle.

“_The king!_” they called, “_the king!_”

Aziraphale pushed himself from the sofa and threw his book aside. He ran from the room, looking down the stairs to where the guards were rushing to get the doors open to make themselves ready. Aziraphale grabbed a passing maid and said, “Draw a bath in the king’s rooms. Quick as you can.”

“Yes, m’lord.” She rushed off to do as she was told. Aziraphale descended the stairs.

The snow was still falling very gently, and it blew in on the cold winds that buffeted the castle walls. Aziraphale stood, stone-still, in the great hall, arms behind his back. Madame Tracy and Shadwell came to stand beside him and Aziraphale could see and hear the rest of the staff coming out of different rooms, watching the doors, watching for their king.

“_Yes, thank you_,” Aziraphale heard him say, and felt his chest tighten.

Nearly three months. Three months of brutal cold, of reports detailing the worst of the war. Weeks spent knowing nothing, just trying to do right by the title and the honor Crowley gave him. Aziraphale could scarcely _breathe_, couldn’t think of anything else but _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley_ —

And then, there he was. He stepped through the castle doors and he looked more like a king than Aziraphale could have ever imagined, coat billowing behind him, the snow dusting his hair which had grown too long, and his _beard_ —

Crowley stopped, and for a moment Aziraphale could live in the fantasy that they were meeting for the first time. Locking eyes from across a room. Crowley’s hand was trembling at his side, but he clenched his fist, looked around the castle at the faces of his staff and said, “It’s very good to be home.”

They erupted with cheers, throwing their hats and rags onto the floor below. They hugged and cried and embraced one another, and those on the bottom floor went to him, welcoming him back, reaching out to touch the hem of his cloak. Behind them, the doors swung shut.

“Alright, _alright!_” Madame Tracy stepped in and began urging people back. “His majesty has had a hard few months and a wretched week of travel. Let him _breathe_. You may speak to him when he’s rested.” Everyone begrudgingly dispersed. Madame Tracy looked at Crowley and put a hand on his cheek. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m told there’s a nice hot bath waiting for you upstairs. I’m sure _someone_ would be more than happy to escort you.” She stepped aside and Aziraphale moved closer.

“Your Majesty.” Crowley swallowed. Opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Aziraphale understood. “Here,” he said, and took Crowley’s arm. Together, they made their way up the stairs. Servants vanished back into the rooms they’d come out of as they reached the top. Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder at Madame Tracy, who was leaning into her husband and crying.

It had been a long winter for everyone.

And finally, when the doors to their rooms were shut and locked, when the lamps were turned down low and curtains over the windows drawn shut, Aziraphale turned to Crowley, took him into his arms, and held him close.

“My _love._”

Crowley trembled. “Is it you?” he asked. “Is it really _you?_”

“Of _course_. Crowley, of course it’s me.” Aziraphale pulled back and brushed the hair from his forehead. “My love, my _dear_, who else—”

“I imagined you. So _many_ times I thought I saw you. I lay in my tent and I dreamt of you. You were so real in my mind, I couldn’t...I didn’t _know_—”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, and pulled him close again. “You’re safe. You’re home and you’re with me and you’re _safe._” He kissed his temple, kissed his cheeks wet with tears and finally, _finally_, captured Crowley’s lips in his own.

Crowley moaned, opening up beneath him, bringing his hands up to Aziraphale’s face. “_Angel._”

“That’s right. It’s me.” He pulled back and smiled. “Oh, _look_ at you.”

“I’m so tired.”

“I know. Let’s get you into the bath and put you to bed.” Crowley hummed, and let Aziraphale lead him to the copper tub, now full of steaming hot water. He made no argument as Aziraphale undid the buttons of his coat and tossed it over a chair. He was quiet and still as Aziraphale knelt to undo the same boots he had laced the morning Crowley had left. He was pliant and soft while Aziraphale helped him undress and, when he was naked, step into the water.

“Oh, _Crowley._” Aziraphale drank in the sight of him. There was a mottled red mark on his shoulder, many more on his chest and torso. He was thinner than before, and he looked _exhausted._ “My _love_, just look at you.”

“I know,” Crowley said hoarsely. “I’ve finally become the serpent.”

“Hardly.” Aziraphale urged him forward. “Let me wash your hair.”

Crowley moaned. “I _dreamed_ you would say that.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I certainly hope it lives up to your expectations.” He helped Crowley brace himself on the edge of the tub and knelt behind him, taking a bowl and filling it with water to soak Crowley’s hair. “Would you like me to cut it? When you’re rested?”

“I would.”

“Perhaps in the morning. Whenever you’re up to it.” He heard Crowley hum as he set down the bowl. He rubbed all sorts of things into Crowley’s hair, soaps and salts and oils — he lathered his curls and rinsed them clean, before gently wringing the water from them and pinning them away from his neck. “Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured, and kissed Crowley’s neck.

“_Aziraphale_.”

“Let me get the rest of you. Just lean back,” he said, and Crowley did.

He most certainly fell asleep at one point, while Aziraphale bathed him.

“My love,” Aziraphale murmured, when he was done, and kissed his brow. “Can I put you to bed?”

Crowley stirred in the water and nodded. “Please.” He reached for Aziraphale and let him pull him from the tub. Aziraphale wrapped a towel around Crowley’s shoulders. He kissed his jaw, put a hand on his cheek, and inhaled the scent of rosemary and sea salt from the bath. “_Angel_.”

“My love.”

“Oh, angel, _angel_, I’ve missed you.”

“I know. I’ve missed you as well.” Aziraphale kissed him once more and brought him to bed. He sat him on the edge, found a soft shirt for him to sleep in, and folded Crowley into the sheets. “Rest, my love. Rest and rest and _rest._”

“Will you stay?”

“Of course. I won’t leave your side. Not for a second.”

Crowley nodded and closed his eyes. He was fast asleep a moment later.

* * *

Crowley slept through the night and well into the next day. At one point he sat straight up, looking around in a panic, searching frantically through the sheets. Aziraphale went to him, saw in his wild eyes he was dreaming, and kissed him back into bed. “Don’t fret, don’t _fret_,” he whispered. “I have you. I’m here. I haven’t gone.”

“_Where_—”

“Home. You’re _home._” Crowley nodded, clutching whatever part of Aziraphale he could reach until he drifted off again.

He wasn’t awake properly until he’d been home three days. Every so often he’d gotten up, relieved himself, stolen a piece of bread from Aziraphale’s plate, and then fallen back into bed. He woke occasionally in a panic, but less so as the days wore on. Eventually, he was able to get up, bathe and dress himself, and went with Aziraphale down into the dining room for breakfast.

The chef, Franny, served him personally, and it was a lovely morning, with a gentle snow falling outside, and the sun peaking through the bed of sea-grey clouds.

Crowley reached over and covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own. “I can see that things were cared for in my absence.”

“I did my best.”

“And the wounded? They’re still here?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I thought you might want to visit them after eating.”

“I would.” Crowley sipped his tea and sighed. “I...I am so _happy_ that you…”

“I never would have left.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have blamed you. Every day I thought of you, taking on all of _this_. With a war on. How could I have been so stupid, angel? How could I have left all this to you without so much as a warning?”

“I fared quite well,” Aziraphale said. And he _had._ Certainly, he’d had a slip up here and there, but overall —

“You are incredible,” Crowley murmured, and leaned in to kiss him. It was their first real, _sturdy_ kiss since Crowley’s return. The first kiss that finally _stirred_ something, deep within Aziraphale.

Oh he _wanted._ Desire filled him up and he _wanted_ so many things.

Crowley pulled back. “We’ll go see them now,” he said, “and then I’d...I’d like to rest.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale stood and walked alongside Crowley through the castle into the ballroom. There were far fewer wounded than there’d been at this room’s peak in its time as a hospital, but there were enough. Crowley went to each of them, one by one, listening to the things they wanted to say, the things they needed. He thanked them, he held their hands, and he heard their stories. Aziraphale stood with Anathema, who waited with baited breath until Crowley finally came to her, and took her hands in his.

“My dear.”

“Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” he said, “for absolutely everything. I heard a lot about you, you know.”

Anathem froze. “From—”

“Mr. Pulsifer. He was part of the battalion that escorted me home. Talked my ear off about the most beautiful woman in the south. Asked if I knew you and I said of course, Miss Anathema’s been quite helpful to me for some time. Seemed a bit embarrassed I already knew who he meant.”

“Your prince consort is a horrid gossip.”

Aziraphale raised his hands. “Northern sensibilities, can’t help myself.”

Crowley laughed and brought Anathema close, kissing her forehead. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I will not forget this.”

* * *

Crowley laid down after breakfast, while Aziraphale sorted through some letters and reorganized his bookshelf. He suddenly felt pinned down, blood thrumming in his veins. He needed to relax. Their kiss at breakfast was only that, and Crowley was in no shape to —

“Angel.”

Aziraphale turned, and Crowley was sitting up, his hair a mess, tunic rucked up and showing off the flat plane of his stomach. Aziraphale desperately wanted to put his lips there, push it up further and hold Crowley against him, kiss him until they fell asleep.

“My dear?”

“Come here, angel.” Crowley held out his hand and Aziraphale crossed the room and went to him. “Let me hold you,” he said, and Aziraphale crawled into bed and immediately fell into Crowley’s arms. “I dreamed of you nearly every night. Thought about what it would be like to come home to you. Each week I thought _this is the one._ _The one where we win._” He sighed.

“I am so glad to have you back, my love,” Aziraphale said, and looked up into Crowley’s eyes. “I thought of you constantly.”

“I can’t believe I ever thought you would leave. I’m so sorry for even considering it.”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale murmured. “You’re home and we’re together. And we can get back to the way things were.”

Crowley sat up and Aziraphale reluctantly pulled away from his embrace. “I don’t want to go back to the way things were, angel.”

“Crowley…”

“I want things to be better. I want things to be different, in a _good_ way. Seeing Abraham coming to help, knowing Queen Esther sent her personal physicians…Aziraphale, the entire world is changing all around us. Around _me._ I can’t go back. I can’t be who I was anymore. I have to be different. _Better._ I have to be that way for myself and for all of the south.” He reached out and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. “And I must be better for us.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Then I’ll do the same. Each day, we’ll be better. We’ll try.”

Crowley laughed and leaned down to kiss him. “What a future,” he murmured. “A future with you.” He surged forward, pushing Aziraphale onto his back, urging his mouth open further, kissing him hard and deeper. “My angel, my _love_—”

“_Crowley._”

“When you wrote about us in your letters, it was all I could do not to touch myself and think of you. I have waited and _waited_, Aziraphale.”

“Stop waiting with me, then. Take me, have me, make love to me—”

“Oh, _yes_—” Crowley moaned as Aziraphale lifted his hips and pressed against Crowley, feeling his cock stiffening under his breeches. “I need you. _I need you_.” Aziraphale nodded, and they parted only so they could pull at their shirts, tugging them off and tossing them to the side. Crowley moaned, spreading his hands over Aziraphale’s chest and setting his hungry mouth upon his neck. “I’m going to have you,” he murmured. “_All_ of you.”

“Yes, _yes_, please—”

Crowley put a hand between Aziraphale legs and pressed it against his cock. “I saw how you looked at me, at breakfast.”

“All day, Crowley. You made me wait _all day_.”

“Patience is a virtue, angel.”

“One man’s virtue—”

“Oh, you are _wicked_.” Crowley kissed him again, trailed his lips across Aziraphale’s jaw and nipped at the shell of his ear. “And what of you? Did you think of me and touch yourself?”

“Sometimes.”

“Mmm, I do love to picture you like that. I love to imagine you with your hand on your cock, thinking of me. Your whole body turns such a sweet pink, do you know that? Just like _now._” He drug his nails down Aziraphale’s chest and Aziraphale cried out. Crowley brought his fingers down to the laces of Aziraphale’s breaches and pulled gently. “Off,” he murmured, and moved from Aziraphale’s lap.

“By the tub,” Aziraphale said, breathlessly, knowing what Crowley was looking for. He tossed his breeches away and stroked his own cock, sliding his thumb across the tip with a low groan.

“Oh?”

“I...a few times, I—” He had stretched himself open after bathing, and fucked himself with his own fingers while fisting his cock, shouting Crowley’s name. Twice, he’d done that. Each time had left him feeling empty.

“That is something I’d like to see,” Crowley said, coming back to bed with the oil. “But for now, I would very much like the pleasure of opening you up myself.”

“_Please_—”

“And I’m going to fuck you,” Crowley murmured, kissing Aziraphale’s brow. “You won’t have to wait any longer.”

“Oh, _Crowley_—”

“Just relax,” Crowley urged, and Aziraphale finally did, falling back against the pillows with a sigh. He heard Crowley pull the cork from the bottle, felt his other hand, cool and dry, on his knee as Crowley bent it back and pressed one finger between his arse cheeks, teasing gently at his hole. Aziraphale hissed with pleasure. His entire body reacted to Crowley, reaching out for him, accepting him. He wanted absolutely everything Crowley could give, everything Crowley had, and he wanted it as right then.

“Easy, angel.” Aziraphale was pushing against Crowley’s finger as it teased the rim of him before he slid the tip gently inside. “Slow at first—”

“I do not want _slow_.”

“And I don’t want to hurt you.” Crowley looked at him sternly. “I don’t want to rush this. I want to savor it, savor _you_.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Crowley.”

Crowley shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What I want is to open you up, to enjoy the feel and the taste of you. I want to go so slow you _beg _me for more—”

“I’m already _begging_.”

“And then I will make you scream. I’ll make you say my name again and again and again. You’ll never want me to stop, you’ll never want it to end—” And as he said it, he slid his finger inside Aziraphale completely. “Now,” he said. “Just. _Relax._”

And so Aziraphale did.

Crowley grew quiet as he stretched Aziraphale open. Every so often he kissed Aziraphale’s stomach or his hip. He nipped at Aziraphale’s thigh and Aziraphale reveled in the feeling of Crowley’s beard on his skin, rough and warm and _good_. When Crowley had three fingers inside him, he began fucking him open properly, and Aziraphale moaned, rolling his hips with the motion. He was so ready to be full, so ready to have all of Crowley that he hardly realized he was babbling, pleading for Crowley to take him, have him, _wreck him_.

“I intend to,” Crowley said, and withdrew his fingers.

“_Oh!_”

“It’s alright.” He reached for the oil again and slicked his cock, stroking it and closing his eyes. “If you could see yourself, angel. My prince consort, spread out in his king’s bed, legs open for me. Look at you. _Look at you_,” he said, and pressed the tip of his cock between Aziraphale’s cheeks. “_Oh_, Aziraphale. _Aziraphale._”

“Please, Crowley. I need you. I need this.”

“I know. Believe me, angel, I _know_.” With a sigh he slid in further, gasping as Aziraphale clenched around him. “You feel _so_—”

“It’s alright, my love. I’m here.”

“Oh, I’m so glad. I’m so _glad_ you are.” He pulled out almost completely and, with a cry, thrust in.

Aziraphale threw his head back and _howled._ “Crowley!”

“_Fuck._” He was buried inside Aziraphale, pressed tight against him. “Let me fuck you, let me—”

“Yes, _yes_—”

Crowley nodded and began to thrust in earnest. Aziraphale wrapped his legs around Crowley’s waist, drawing him closer. He wanted more, he needed more, and Crowley understood, better than anyone. He gave Aziraphale exactly what he wanted.

“I love you,” Crowley gasped. “I’m close, I’m so _close_—”

“Come for me, my love. Let me see you. Let me have it.”

“You’re _so_—”

“I know. It’s us, we’re meant to be here, together. And look, we were apart and we survived it. Just like we survived all those years, before I knew you, before you knew me.”

“I was waiting,” Crowley said. “Oh, _Aziraphale._”

“Yes, and you were so good and so patient, but you don’t have to wait anymore.”

“I—”

“Let go,” Aziraphale said, and reached up, pulling Crowley close. Crowley buried his face against Aziraphale’s neck and sobbed, his thrusts coming faster now, harder each time. “Let go, my love, _oh! Crowley!_” Aziraphale was going to come, just like this, not a hand on him. He couldn’t stop it now, Crowley’s name spilling from his lips again and again.

Crowley shouted, “Angel, _angel_—” and thrust in once more before spilling into Aziraphale, fucking him through it. The press of Crowley’s cock and the heat-desperate moment sent Aziraphale over the edge, and he came a moment after, spotting and smearing come on his chest. Crowley fucked into him a few more times before he finally stilled, his cock softening inside Aziraphale, his entire body shivering.

“My love…” Aziraphale carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair and kissed his temple. “Are you alright?”

“_Hng_.”

Aziraphale laughed. He winced a little and moved up, feeling Crowley’s cock and come slip out of him. He reached down to slip two fingers into his hole, but Crowley stopped him, sliding down until he was settled between Aziraphale’s knees and burying his tongue inside him.

“_Oh!_” Aziraphale pushed against his mouth and wondered what he’d have to do to convince Crowley to keep the beard.

* * *

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want it for a bit longer?”

“It’s itchy.”

Aziraphale sighed, running his hands over Crowley’s beard longingly. “But I _adore_ the way—”

“Angel. If you don’t shave it off, you’re going to have to move back home.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t.”

Crowley raised a brow. “I wouldn’t, but I’m not above withholding.”

“_Demon_,” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley well and truly laughed for the first time in _days._

Aziraphale had never shaved a man’s beard before. He shaved his own face, sometimes, but his facial hair didn’t grow in very quickly. He’d enjoyed watching Crowley shave some mornings, and had often wondered what he’d look like if he didn’t. The last few nights they’d made love, Aziraphale had enjoyed it against the skin of his ass and thighs, and the way his lips felt after they’d kissed for what felt like _hours._

Aziraphale knelt behind him. “I suppose if this is what you _really_ want.”

“It is,” Crowley said, and leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes.

It was strangely intimate, the process of taking a razor, a _sharp _razor, to his lover’s cheek. He went slow, at a steady angle, tipping Crowley’s head this way and that. Every so often he kissed Crowley’s brow and Crowley would smile. Aziraphale wiped the razor on a wet towel and was quite pleased that he did it without a single cut.

And there, beneath three months of winter, was his king.

Crowley opened his eyes, looking at Aziraphale and grinned. “What?”

“...I’m glad we did it.”

“Are you?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Because I’d missed this face.”

Crowley rolled onto his stomach, gripping the edge of the tub and pushing himself up for a kiss. Aziraphale dropped the razor and pulled him close. Water splashed out of the tub and onto the floor, but Aziraphale didn’t care.

“Let me cut your hair,” he said breathlessly.

“You should fuck me first.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. Hair.”

Crowley whined. “_Angel._”

“It’s wet, just sit _down_—”

Crowley splashed him.

Aziraphale stared.

“...Fine.”

* * *

After, Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s freshly shorn curls and _pulled_, sinking deeper into him as he fucked him from behind.

“There’s my king,” he said, “_there_ he is.”

“_Aziraphale!_”

“Oh, my love. You feel so good. Just a little more now.” He put both hands on Crowley’s hips and pulled him back on his cock over and over. Aziraphale felt his climax building slowly and he pulled out, rolling Crowley over and coming with a moan over his chest. He looked down and saw Crowley stroking his cock, watching as he came. Aziraphale wasted no time, dragging his tongue through it and licking his way into Crowley’s mouth.

“I missed the way you taste, _your Majesty._”

Crowley moaned, pulled him close, and smeared the mess between them.

* * *

Winter began to ebb away. Once February ended, each day grew a bit warmer than the one before. The snow began melting and though the ground grew wet and muddy, but they still enjoyed walking down the hill and into the capital. They had coffees in the cafe above the bookshop and Crowley bought white fish for Ghost before they walked hand in hand back up to the castle.

At first they made love almost every night, but eventually, that desperate flame eased into something more cautious. And from that feeling of caution bloomed something like comfort. Aziraphale didn’t need that deep-dark passion blossoming inside him. Sometimes, Crowley would look at him a certain way, or they would wake up at the same time, and they would _know_ —

But most days were passed in an easy companionship, and the idea that they would ever need to be anything more never really occurred to them.

Of course, to some, it simply wasn’t enough.

“My advisors think we should marry,” Crowley said one evening, as they lounged on their sofa, the fire crackling away. Aziraphale nearly fell into the floor.

“I’m _sorry?_”

Crowley sighed. “You’re already prince consort. They just think it should be more..._formal._”

Aziraphale frowned. “What on earth could be more formal than your _official_ decree?”

“By formal,” Crowley muttered, “they mean ceremonial.”

“Ah. I see.” They sat in silence until Aziraphale said, “Is that...something you want?”

Crowley carded his fingers lazily through Aziraphale’s hair, lost in thought. Aziraphale knew he was asking something big and he felt uncertainty welling up inside him. He suddenly regretted asking, wished he’d never said a thing, because he knew his own answer quite clearly, knew exactly how he wanted to spend the rest of his days —

“No,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale nearly wept with relief.

“Oh, thank _God._”

Crowley laughed. “Would being married to me really be so terrible?”

Aziraphale sat up and reached for Crowley’s hands. “It’s only ceremony, my love. Just another piece of paper, and some big to-do over what? Telling the world you love me? That I love you in return?” He brought Crowley’s hands to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “The world already knows.”

Crowley leaned in close. “And you?” he asked. “Do you know how much I love you angel?”

“I do. But I could do with a reminder.”

“Mmm.” Crowley kissed him. “I love you,” he said, “the depth of the sea, and to the reaches of the farthest star.”

Aziraphaled laughed. “And I love you,” he said, “the length of eternity, as the moon loves the earth. Never parted, and never far.”

Crowley gathered Aziraphale in his arms and held him. Held him until the fire began to die down.

Outside, winter was ending, and stubborn wildflowers were breaking through the frozen ground. Aziraphale felt that in his heart, too. Felt the stubborn roots of love that had begun to grow in the spring taking root inside them. He had some days nurtured them, others starved them, and many times drowned them in these past months, but here — here and now, they were finally starting to bloom. Each one had a name — _promise I can love you, forgive me I am hard to love, all your days and all the days beyond_ — but they were growing.

They were _growing._

In the gaps between their fingers, in the spaces where Crowley’s lips met his, there was a promise and a spark — a hint of things to come. And Aziraphale wasn’t afraid. He thought, joyfully, that it would go on like this forever.

This time, he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap it's done. there was going to be an epilogue, but the ending of this just kind of wrapped itself up so nicely, and i'm so so happy with it. thank you all for your wonderful comments, your very sweet messages. you can find the masterpost for this fic on tumblr [here](https://weatheredlaw.tumblr.com/post/187957935014/with-all-your-delights-a-crowleyaziraphale-fic), and a small playlist for the fic on spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/14XUgKlpOYYRxkPcJkcUty?si=pXxHGZ-IQxW-HILn_M5Siw)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


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